


Shoulder to the Wheel

by Pinkerton



Series: Sowing Season [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bisexual Jack Zimmermann, Family Drama, Family Issues, Family Loss (not death), Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, a gross lack of hockey for a story about hockey players, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: The first year of Kent's time in the Q. Hockey, teammates, hookups, families of all kinds, and, of course, Jack Zimmermann.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Junior hockey, brah. It’s a lot. Trying to mesh what we know from canon about Jack and Kent’s pre-NHL timeline with actual QMJHL policies AND the story I wanted to write was turning into a plotting/research nightmare -- when I found myself downloading a PDF of bylaws and being mad that it was only available in French, I realized I needed to take a step back. If you are super into Junior hockey, this may not be the story for you.
> 
> For the purposes of my plot, Kent was drafted into Rimouski Oceanic in spite of living in the wrong state for that to happen, he and Jack were both freshly turned 16 when they met, and they both attend a French language local high school. Quebec does a thing where after the 11th grade you go to 2 years at a CEGEP to prep for college, so they both graduate after the 3rd year of high school.
> 
> Thanks to summerfrost for the beta, and selfsong for the cheerleading.

According to the calendar in the Parsons’ kitchen, Kent is leaving for Rimouski in 17 days. He’s pretty sure he should currently be better using his time by helping his mother to get dinner ready, or practicing his French, or working through the massive to-do list his billet mother had helped him write earlier in the day over the phone, but instead he’s in the basement, fishing through one of his father’s dusty, overstuffed toolboxes.

He shudders as his hand brushes against a cobweb, but finally he unearths what he’s looking for and storms up the stairs into the kitchen. His mom is is stirring a pot on the stove, and his foster brother, Robbie, is carefully slicing carrots into coins at the table. Neither look up from their tasks as Kent sweeps into the room. 

Kent clears his throat and lifts the pliers in his hand, waving them around. “I have an announcement!”

His mom lids the pot and turns around, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. “Is it that you took out the trash like I asked you to an hour ago?’

Kent can feel his moment slipping away. “No, it’s that if you don’t take me to the orthodontist before I leave, I will take these braces off myself!” He points at the pliers for emphasis.

Robbie doesn’t even look up from where he’s sitting at the table. He shakes his head as solemnly as a 9-year old can, his eyes on the cutting board. “Kent, doesn’t your mother have enough to deal with?”

His mom turns back to the stove. “Thank you, Robbie. Kent, honey, when you are done being dramatic can you please set the table for dinner and then take out the trash?” She moves from the stove to rummage through the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade and setting it in front of Robbie. “Toss those into the salad bowl, and then you’re on drink duty, baby.” The duo go about their meal prep, moving around Kent, who is still standing in the middle of the kitchen.

Kent sighs, puts the pliers down, and gets the plates.

“That’s the spirit,” his mom mutters.

Within fifteen minutes his dad gets home from work and Kent’s sister, Kristen, gets dropped off from gymnastics, and after the washing of hands and the putting away of cellphones, dinner starts. They’re part way through the salad when Kristen clears her throat. “As you know, my birthday--” 

Kent’s parents’ groan, while Kent slumps over in his seat and Robbie tosses his head back and sighs loudly. 

“--excuse me! As I was saying, my birthday is approaching, and if you check your email you will see I have sent you each an Excel document I think you will find very informative, especially the customs form instructions in case you will be out of the country when mailing gifts.”

“You can just say me.” Kent spears a piece of pepper on his plate. “We all know you mean me.”

“It’s unfair that I had to be at your stupid party this summer when you won’t be at mine.”

“Enough.” Kent’s mom sets down her fork and knife. “Kristen, don’t be rude to your brother. We love you, but no one cares about your Excel document. You’re getting gift cards. Kent, give your sister a break, and come help me carry.”

“What did I do?” Kent gets up to follow his mother, and Kristen sticks her tongue out at him. 

By the time everyone’s been served, conversation has moved back to safer territories. It’s a nice family dinner, even with Kent morosely cutting his corn off the cob while throwing his mom long, pointed looks as Kristen eats her ear of corn in the most obnoxious way possible. “I get it,” he mumbles, “you don’t have braces and can eat your corn like a moron.” He misjudges his volume, though; his mom, who does not tolerate name calling at the dinner table, hears him and immediately assigns him dish duty for the night.

Kristen’s face through the remainder of dinner ranges from “smug” to “super smug.” Kent would retaliate, but he knows what comes after dishwashing in his mother’s list of “chores to torture children with,” and he hates vacuuming above all things, so he bites his tongue.

Half way through ice cream, his mom clears her throat until Kent, who has been replaying that day’s practice scrimmage in his head, pays attention. “So, Kent, I forgot to tell you, but Dr. Johnson called and hey, your last set of x-rays finally came back and your teeth are straight, so congrats, you’re getting your braces off.” 

Kent is all gasping surprise and stands, ready to make a brief speech for the occasion, but his mother raises her hand and continues. “He fit you in literally the day before you’re leaving. I would have told you earlier, because I actually did hear the five million times you complained about not wanting to have braces when you are off doing hockey in the frozen tundras of Quebec, but I just thought I’d let you be a pain in the ass a little longer because we are going to miss your pain in the ass-ness so much.” 

Kent sits down, barely able to contain himself. “Mom, I have never loved you more, or been happier to be your favorite child--” Kent deftly twists to avoid both Kristen’s elbow to his side and Robbie’s kick aimed at his ankle, “but if I get dish duty for calling Kristen a moron, what do you get for calling me a pain in the ass?”

Later that night, his fingers still pruney from doing dishes, Kent vacuums the entire house, top to bottom. He does so with zero grace, bashing the baseboards and threatening to run over Kristen’s feet, while mumbling about how he bets his billet mom isn’t gonna be a dirty hypocrite. 

“Who’s gonna vacuum when I’m busy getting hockey victory in Canada, huh? HUH? So there.” 

When he’s fighting to shove the extension cord back into the packed hall closet, his mom ambushes him with a hug, holding him tight and ruffling his hair.

“We got formal permission to take Robbie up when we drop you off.”

Kent lets relief wash over him. “Oh thank god. Knew I liked his new caseworker.”

“Me too. It’ll be a good trip. I’m gonna miss you, kiddo.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna miss having one more person to do chores.”

“Yes,” his mom says, “you’re the only one old enough to not be in violation of child labor laws. Please don’t go to Canada. We’ll never have clean dishes or floors again.”

Kent tightens his arms around her. “I’ll miss you too, mom.”

“You’re gonna be so great, baby.” She lets go of him and smoothes his hair before walking away.

Kent lays in bed that night and prays that she’s right.

* * * * 

“Robs, my man, I think it’s perfect.” Kent sits back from the table and starts to peel strings of dried hot glue off his fingers. Robbie leans over their project. “KENT TO CANADA!” the top of the count down calendar reads in bubbly font. The calendar has tear-offs for each day between now and their family trip to drop him off, and everything is in Oceanic colors. There’s a photo of Robbie and Kent at the local rink, giddy after Robbie finally mastered skating backwards. _Kid’s gonna be a contender_ , Kent thinks.

Robbie is quiet as they carry the calendar to their room and carefully hang it with a thumb tack. Kent throws his arm around Robbie and pulls him to his side. “I’m just a phone call away, okay?”

He’s saying it as much for himself as for Robbie.

* * * * 

 

After offering to autograph the “after” photo his orthodontist takes -- Dr. Johnson politely declines -- Kent spends a few moments thanking the techs and office staff before his mom hustles him out the door, eager to purchase the final item on Kent’s packing list, a new pair of sneakers. Kent spends the 20 minute drive to the mall staring at his teeth in his mom’s compact mirror. “Mom, mom, we gotta go back. They’re too big.”

“What?” She deftly merges into traffic, then glances over at Kent.

“My teeth. They’re huge. They weren’t this huge before I got braces. How did they grow? Does that happen? Oh my god mom, the boys are gonna make my nickname something about teeth.”

His mother just turns up the radio.

* * * * 

The alarm clock on the night stand is set for 6am. It’s past midnight, but Kent can’t sleep. He rolls over, and that puts him face to face with the now completed countdown calendar on the wall. He groans and shoves his face into his pillow. 

“Kent?” The question floats up from the bunk below.

“Buddy, you should be asleep.” Kent can feel the frame of the bed shaking as Robbie climbs the ladder up to him.

“Can’t sleep,” he whispers, as he clambers over the edge and shoves at Kent to move over. 

Kent sighs. “Me either. C’mon, get under the blanket -- oof, you’re getting big, man. You don’t fit like you used to.”

Robbie’s arms are around Kent’s neck, his face pressed into Kent’s chest. “Don’t go.”

“Aww, buddy. I gotta.” Robbie wiggles a little, and for as big as he is, for as weirdly wise as he can be, Kent is hit, again, with the fact that he’s only nine, and that the world is a big place that hasn’t always treated him well. Kent pets his hair for a few moments and feels him relax against him. “C’mon, Robs. A phone call away. Just a phone call.”

Robbie eventually sleeps. Kent doesn’t.

 

* * * * 

The forecast calls for a scorcher by noon, but the morning air is still cool as Kent and his dad lug bags and boxes into the family van. Kent can’t stop licking the front of his teeth. They’re so smooth and weird feeling without his braces. His stomach feels weird, too, but he isn’t sure if it’s nerves or the giant Costco sized bag of sticky, glorious, now finally allowed again after years of orthodontics Laffy Taffy he and Robbie ate before bed last night. 

Some things are just meant to be mysteries, Kent figures.

Robbie and Kent take over the back bench seat and Kristen camps out in the middle, resolutely ignoring them as they make their way northeast to Montreal, where they’ll spend the night. Kent only aches a little when his family talks about the stopover in Quebec City on the way back. 

He aches majorly, awfully, every time he looks at Robbie, who is alternating between clinging to Kent and ignoring him. The three and a half months stretching between tomorrow and Kent’s planned trip home for Christmas feels like nothing and forever. Kent’s gonna miss that kid so much.

Kent grudgingly allows, while they are stopped for burgers somewhere off the interstate, that he might miss his sister’s stupid face, maybe, but probably not and especially not if she kept hogging all the fries which dad had ordered for the table. “Those are for everyone,” Kent hisses as Kristen takes another handful.

Kristen just kicks Kent under the table. Kent flinches. “My legs are _valuable_ , Kirsten.”

Kristen just shrugs. “Shame they’re connected to the rest of you.” Kent cooly reaches out and grabs the biggest handful of communal fries possible and shoves them all in his mouth at once. 

Robbie just looks back and forth at them. “You guys, I never get tired of being the only one allowed to order dessert. You know that, right?”

After lunch, Kent follows Kristen into the corridor that leads to the bathrooms and hugs her tight where no one else can see. She hugs back for a good ten seconds before flicking his ear and walking away.

There’s plenty of summer daylight left when they get to Montreal, perfect for spending a few hours strolling through the city and gawking at its ridiculously good looking citizens. Kent’s not sure if it’s something in the water or just the French-Canadian situation in general that saw fit to bless an entire population with sharp cheekbones and good hair. 

After consulting the map from their hotel, the Parsons get happily lost in the Latin Quarter for a bit, and then wander without much aim, other than getting his Dad an iced cap at Timmy’s -- he swears the Tim Hortons in the US just don’t make them right. 

Drinks in hand, they take a turn back onto St. Catherine Street. “Whoa,” Kent’s sister says, tugging his arm and pointing up. Above them are hundreds of strings of garland stretching from the roof to roof over the street, creating a riotous canopy of pink that stretches as far as Kent can see. 

Kent laughs, and scoops Robbie up onto his shoulders. He passes his camera up so Robbie can start snapping photos. Kent carefully pivots them around, looking for his parents, ready to congratulate them on randomly stumbling across such a beautiful sight.

Kent’s smile fades when he sees his parent’s pinched faces. They aren’t looking at the garlands or the crowds -- they’re looking at the storefronts covered in posters of half naked men draped in leather, the rainbow flags flying over doors. Kent gently sets Robbie down and reclaims his camera, but as he does he bumps into two men holding hands. 

“Oh--” Kent starts, but he’s beaten to his apology. 

"Excuse me, I didn’t see you," the man says in French.

"Of course, sorry." Kent pauses to find his words. "I was looking up. Is this pink stuff always here?"

The man smiles. "Your accent is very good. And yes, the city puts it up every summer. Isn’t it lovely?"

Kent looks down to their joined hands. "Yes. Sorry, I have to find my parents. Have a good day." He turns to see that his parents are half a block ahead of him, marching determinedly in the general direction of the hotel, with Robbie trailing behind them. 

Kent sighs and holds up his camera, checking that his family is still turned the other way. He quickly snaps one more photo, making sure to get a rainbow flag in the background, before jogging to catch up.

They get back to the hotel suite and nap, or Kent pretends to. When he can hear the gentle wuffs of Robbie’s snoring in the bed next to him, he takes out his phone and pulls up the last picture. There’s the flag, bright and clear, but also a surprise -- his own reflection in the shine of a polished store window.

Kent studies himself. The image is a little blurry, but when he zooms in the details are still fairly clear. His hair is windblown, an even bigger mess than usual, and his collar is askew from where Robbie was on his shoulders. The camera blocks most of his face, but he can see that he’s on the verge of smiling. He runs his finger over the display, wishing he could pull the camera out of the way and see himself looking at that flag. 

He sighs and puts the camera away, then rolls over and tries to get comfortable. He’s not going to think about it anymore, he tells himself. He takes this not thinking and tucks it deep down inside, with all the other similar moments he stores far, far away, but also takes the tiniest, tiniest bit of hope; hope that there is a gay neighborhood in Montreal full of posters of half naked men and garlands of pink and couples holding hands and everyone who isn’t his parents seeming not to care at all about it. Kent lets this hope linger somewhere a little closer to the surface.

By the time they head to dinner a few hours later, the slightly sick feeling in his stomach is gone, which is good, because it turns out the food in Montreal is freaking amazing. They find a bistro near the water, and Kent orders for the table in French. As his family oohs and ahhs when the dishes arrive, he feels pretty smug about all his studying paying off. He’s so confident that he even tries to flirt with the server a bit, who raises one eyebrow and says, Kent thinks, "Kid, I'm a little too old for you."

It’s late when they get back to the hotel. Kristen beats him to the bathroom, so by the time Kent washes up and slips into his bed, Robbie’s passed out, curled into his usual blanket burrito. His breathing is just louder than the ambient noise coming through their open window, and his face is washed in the light as the curtains gently move with the breeze. 

Kent watches him sleep and thinks of the hundreds of games his family has cheered for him at, and how Robbie beamed when Kent tried on his Rimouski jersey for the first time. How if he does it just right, they’ll all be set for life. 

“I’ll even buy Kristen a house,” Kent whispers as he turns onto his stomach, ”....but maybe one that is slightly haunted. That’s still generous, right?”

Full of rich food and exhausted from the previous night’s lack of sleep, Kent thinks sleep will come easy. Instead, he again watches the hours tick away. “Robbie,” he whispers. “Robs, did I tell you about my room? It’s an entire basement just for me. It’ll be my first room to myself. How crazy is that? I’m 16 and I’ve never had a room to myself.” 

Kent takes a moment to think -- his parents started fostering when he was in kindergarten, kicking off a steady stream of children in and out of the house, with him and Kristen rotating through bunk beds and trundle beds and, sometimes, sleeping bags on the couch to give a freaked out kid some space of his or her own to chill out in. And that’s not even counting the constant rotation of Parson cousins visiting for summers, or the never ending sleepovers that happen with a house full of kids inviting people over without notice. 

An entire room to himself seems like too much, so he keeps talking, tamping down his rising anxiety. “I get the usual bedroom stuff, and a couch and coffee table, and a fridge.” 

He pauses, listening to make sure Robbie is still gently snoring. “There’s an extra bed, too, so you can come visit. You don’t know it, but mom and dad are trying to work that out. Maybe some of the boys will crash there, too, sometimes. That’d be fun, you know?” 

There’s no answer, just the gentle sounds of nighttime in the room, and Kent’s rapid breaths.

He can feel the tears coming. “Think I’ll be able to sleep in an empty room?” He stares at the ceiling. “I bet it’s gonna be great. Right?”

He falls asleep still waiting for an answer.

* * * * 

“Bienvenue à Rimouski,” Kent says, pushing himself toward the car window. “Où est le reste?”

Despite his dad’s GPS tracker, they got a little lost, and Kent thinks he may have seen the entire town. Buffalo is the second biggest city in New York State. Rimouski is smaller than that. By a lot.

The placid GPS voice redirects them and soon they’re pulling into the driveway of a pleasant looking two story home. The front door swings open before Kent is even done stretching his legs, and then everything is a swirl of talking and hugs and laughing as they Parsons are swept into the Olsen’s living room. 

Somewhere between getting a glass of soda pressed into his hand and a tour of the ground floor, Kent thinks he sees a cat hightailing it upstairs and away from all the commotion. He shakes off his desire to follow, and turns his attention back to Jan, who is steering his mother around her kitchen. Sure, they’ve talked and emailed and all, but it’s overwhelming to actually meet his billet family -- Janis, who goes by Jan; Bryant, who favors his middle name, Tim; and billet sister Madeleine, who dislikes nicknames, small talk, and, apparently, judging from her glare, billet brothers.

As eight people mix and mingle in the living room, Kent breaks away, wondering if he can find a bathroom without asking. Before he gets too far, the door Tim told him leads to the basement suite opens, and a boy his age steps out. He’s taller than Kent, with shaggy dark hair and very blue eyes. He doesn’t smile as he greets Kent. 

“I’m Jack. Uh, Jack Zimmermann.”

Before Kent can blurt out something horrifically embarrassing like “I KNOW” or “You’re taller than I thought you’d be” -- of course, of course Kent knew he’d meet Jack Zimmermann, but he thought he’d have a little advanced warning, and also be wrapped in the comforting embrace of his hockey gear when it happened -- Jan comes sprinting across the room to them. “Oh, oh, wait, Kent, I am so very sorry, I will explain.” 

It turns out that Jan’s best friend and Jack’s meant-to-be billet mom from down the street delivered her third child five weeks early. The baby is healthy, but stuck in NICU for the foreseeable future. Hosting a teenage hockey player on top of that is just too much. 

Her explanation done, Jan draws in a deep breath. “So of course Tim and I offered to do anything to help out, and, well. You and Jack will be sharing the basement suite, possibly for the whole season, and did I mention that I am sorry?” 

 

“It’s fine,” Kent says, watching Jack, who wandered away mid-story and is now talking to Kent’s mom. Jack is nodding along with what she’s saying, his eyes jumping from her face to the table of snacks that she’s blocking. When Robbie pulls her away, Jack darts forward and stuffs a handful of cheese cubes in his mouth. 

Jan makes a loud “tsk” sound and Jack freezes before sending a sheepish smile her way and grabbing a plate. 

Jan shakes her head as Jack loads up on more cheese and some sliced veggies. “The great hockey prodigy of Canada, ladies and gentlemen. And your roommate. Again, sorry.”

Kent stifles a laugh and feels the tension in his shoulders he’s been carrying since he left his house dissipate. “It’s all good, Jan. I’m used to having people around. It’s gonna be just fine.”

Tim and Jan put out an early dinner for the Parsons. The adults guide the conversation while the kids dig into the simple but delicious meal of roast pork and potatoes. Kent derives far too much pleasure from watching Kristen and Madeleine glare at each other across the table, every ounce of teen passive aggressiveness they contain beaming out from their eyes and over the dinner rolls. 

They get ready to leave, everyone spilling out into the yard for hugs and goodbyes. Kent saves Robbie for last, and Robbie clings to him, arms around his neck, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Kent clings right back, up till the moment his dad starts the car engine up.

He doesn’t cry when his mom hugs him goodbye one last time, but as the car pulls away he can see Robbie waving, and that does it. Kent spends a few moments pulling himself together before going inside to unpack. Jack already claimed his own space in the basement, taking the smaller of the two beds but the bigger closet. That suits Kent just fine -- he takes a running leap onto his bed and starfishes out in the middle. The blankets are soft and smell like detergent, and the room is quiet, late-afternoon light just barely coming through the small, high windows. Closing his eyes, Kent breathes in and out to a count of ten, then moves to get up and unpack. By the time he tucks away the last of his socks into the dresser, he’s exhausted. He lays down on his bed again and closes his eyes, just for a second.

He’s not sure when he wakes up, but it’s fully dark and it feels late. Kent focuses, and he can just make out the sounds of Jack’s breathing coming from across the room, deep and even. He pulls a blanket up to his chin and is sound asleep a few moments later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song by Saves the Day. 
> 
> http://www.claudecormier.com/en/projet/pink-balls/
> 
> The pink ball installation in Montreal. If this only started recently, then shhh, Kent still totally saw it when he was 16, k? Also sorry I am HTML failing at the link, oh well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a friendship, plus hockey bros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys get hazed in this chapter -- it's pretty tame, but I put a summary in the end notes if you are worried.

“Okay, boys,” Jan says the next morning as she dishes out oatmeal, “the house language is usually French, but we’ll take it easy on you--” she gestures at Kent with the serving spoon, “--while you adjust. D’accord, Jack?”

Jack frowns, but nods.

“Good. On school days, breakfast is at 7, other days, you can find the fridge yourself. Dinner time flexes with your practice and game schedules. I keep a calendar on the back of the kitchen door. I’ve had hockey players eating me out of house and home for years, so never worry about asking in the kitchen -- just help yourself. Oh!” She sets down the pot and reaches into a drawer behind her, pulling out two laminated pieces of paper and handing one to Kent and one to Jack. “There’s this, too.”

Kent’s copy is a screaming shade of orange, while Jack’s is neon green. The title reads “OLSEN HOUSE RULES” with a French version on one side and English on the other. Inexplicably, the text is entirely in capital letters. Kent eats and reads.

THE BASEMENT IS YOURS AND WE RESPECT YOUR PRIVACY BUT JAN WILL DO OCCASIONAL INSPECTIONS FOR CLEANLINESS AND TO REFILL YOUR FRIDGE.

THE GROCERY LIST IS IN THE KITCHEN AND TRIPS ARE ON SATURDAY MORNING. IF YOU WANT TO COME WITH, YOU MUST PROMISE TO NOT GET IN JAN’S WAY OR TO MAKE FUN OF HER WHEN SHE CAN’T REACH THE TOP SHELF AND ASKS YOU TO DO IT.

THE LAUNDRY ROOM IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BASEMENT STAIRS. WORKOUT GEAR DOES NOT AGE WELL WASH IT.

WASH YOUR SHEETS. IF YOU AREN’T SURE IF YOU NEED TO, WASH THEM.

SHORT OF SETTING IT ON FIRE, WE DO NOT CARE ABOUT THE FURNITURE DOWN THERE. WE BOUGHT IT AT YARD SALES. IF YOU BREAK IT, YOUR PUNISHMENT WILL BE TO HAUL THE REPLACEMENT HOME FROM SOME FUTURE YARD SALE.

IF YOU CLOG THE TOILET, DEAL WITH IT. THERE IS A PLUNGER UNDER THE SINK.

GIRLS ARE WELCOME TO SLEEP OVER...IN MADELEINE'S ROOM.

YOU ARE NOW FAMILY AND STUCK WITH US. WE LOVE YOU. (MADELIENE WILL SAY SHE DOESN’T BUT SHE IS LYING)

Jan quizzes them on the rules the following day, a printout with 5 true/false questions on it. The answers are all true, and when they both get perfect scores, they are rewarded by getting to take out the recycling, and as a bonus, to do the dishes.

Kent could not feel more at home if he tried.

* * * *

“Can you move yet?” Kent asks from where he is sprawled on his bed. He’s been laying there for at least 10 minutes, his muscles twinging.

“No,” Jack says from across the room. Kent can’t see him, but he’s pretty sure he’s in the same position on his own bed. Their first practice was earlier that day, and the coaches decided that there would be no easing into things.

“Is this what dying feels like?” Kent asks the ceiling. He can hear Jack groan, and the bedsprings creak, and suddenly there he is, looming over him. “What?”

“You’re going to be even more sore if you just lay there,” and suddenly Kent’s being pulled up and off the bed. “What do you want to do?”

Kent thinks about his options. “Raid the fridge then steal the remote from Madeleine and watch terrible tv?” Jack frowns at him. “Uh, while stretching during commercials?”

“Parfait.”

Madeleine lasts all of twenty minutes of steady chirping, giving as good as she gets, before relinquishing not just the remote but the entire couch, so Jack and Kent watch weird nature shows till dinner, then go to bed early.

The next morning, despite the stretching and the ibuprofen he took before bed, everything aches. Kent rides shotgun to practice with a gleam in his eye, wondering if this is what getting exactly what you’d always dreamed of feels like.

The daily blur of practice quickly becomes a steady, comforting constant, with the riot of noise and commotion 30 boys and their team staff and their moms bring to the rink.The boys humor Kent with English when they can, ranging from Jack’s easy, idiom peppered conversation to Buggsy’s “I speak catchphrases from movies only.”

After three practices, the boys seem to settle on flipping between Parse and Parser as Kent’s nicknames. He’s a little disappointed they didn’t come up with anything more original, but it’s a step up from his Buffalo team’s penchant for “Sonny.”

Jack, the bastard, escapes all attempts at nicknaming.

* * * *

Kent’s leaning against the wall outside the locker room, waiting for Jack to finish up. After a week, his legs feel less like jelly following practice, and he’s starting to get a good read on his teammate’s playing styles. To his immense relief, he’s one of the strongest skaters and his stick handling isn’t too shabby, either. He thinks that he and Jack have real potential as linemates, which would be convenient. He’s mulling this as he walks out of the rink, and is lost in thought when someone taps his shoulder. It’s their alternate captain, Jason Depuis.

“Yo Parser, gotta question for you.” JD is huge, easily 6 inches taller than Kent, who's got his fingers crossed for a growth spurt to happen soon. JD flings his arm over Kent’s shoulder, and Kent barely avoids being knocked off balance. “What’s up with your boy?”

“You losers are all my boys, be more specific.” Kent regains his footing, and they walk toward the waiting line of billet family cars.

“Jack. We’re the loudest bunch of assholes I’ve ever met, and he just sits there. Thinks he’s too good for us?”

Kent snorts. “Nah. He’s just a quiet dude. I’ll talk to him.”

JD nods approvingly. “It’s team, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Team.”

As Jack methodically eats his way through two huge servings of chicken and vegetables that night, Kent plots.

The next day, after practice, before Jack can shove his gear in his bag and sprint away to Jan’s idling car, like usual, Kent grabs him by the bicep. “Hey, good workout today.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“You’re coming out with the team, right? We’re going to Jonesey’s to hang out. Last chance before classes start, you know?”

“I wasn’t---Jan’s already here.”

“Sure, I bet she’d drop us off and be happy to have us out of her hair for a bit. C’mon, Jack. It’ll be fun.”

Jack looks from Kent to the car. “Uh. Yeah. Okay.”

It’s that easy. Once they get to Jonesey’s, Kent hovers around Jack for a while, shoving him towards Dutchy and Snakes, their D-man dream team who seem incapable of ever shutting up, so he can go talk smack with Bammer. A little while later, Kent notices Jack and Dutchy have peeled off from the group and are talking animatedly. Good.

By the time school starts, Kent is feeling good about his boys. Jack joins them more often than he doesn’t, and Kent counts that as a win. When Jack initiates a trip to the local diner, JD gives Kent a thump on the back that nearly winds him.

* * * *

“Oh fuck,” Kent says, as Jimbo trounces on him outside of the rink and wraps a bandana over his eyes, while someone else ties his hands together in front of him.

He should have seen this coming -- it’s been two week of bonding via hockey and hangouts, so of course it’s time for hazing.

Shit.

“S’okay Parser,” Jimbo whispers into his ear, as he pushes Kent forward. A few steps and someone has their hand on his head, helping him duck down into a car. “Welcome to hell!” someone yells, cheerfully. Kent feels a body thunk next to him. “Jack?”

“Yup. They got your hands tied, too?”

Kent groans. “Yes. Hey, assholes! You guys better buckle us in.”

There’s some mumbling in the front seat, then the sounds of doors opening and closing. Kent feels someone’s hands rooting around by his thighs, followed by the sound of a buckle coming together.

“Thank you!” he says.

* * * *

When they get dumped back at the Olsen’s at 4 am, Jack looks at Kent. “I expected worse.”

Kent’s busy trying to dig flour out of his ear. “At least we didn’t end up totally naked.”

Jack tosses him a washcloth. “I’d prefer that to how much my chest is gonna itch when the hair grows back.”

“S’not like I had much chest hair anyway.” Kent gives up on the washcloth. “I’ll be quick in the shower.”

Jack’s already gathering up their filthy clothes for the washer. “It’ll still itch.”

Two days later, as Kent tries to shift his pads around during practice in a futile attempt to scratch his chest, he catches Jack doing the same thing.

* * * *

Jan insists on taking a family photo the first day of school, and after one of them standing by the door, she asks for fun pose. “You know, something with some character!”

“I will murder you and dance on your graves!” Madeleine shrieks about thirty seconds later, as Kent tries to hold on to her legs. She’s kicking hard, but luckily Jack has his arms hooked around her middle firmly.

Madeleine almost clocks Jack in the face.“Take the picture, Jan!” Kent grits out.

It comes out great -- Kent and Jack are hoisting Madeleine over them, more or less; she’s yelling, Jack is laughing, and Kent’s eyes are closed.

That night, Kent collapses on his bed. It’s only been one day of school, followed by an intense practice, and he’s exhausted. Their season hasn’t even started yet.

He gets himself comfortable and calls Kristen. “Hey Teeny, how are you?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “Your voice is weird. What’s wrong? Don’t lie.”

Kent loves her so much. “It’s all good, but, you know --” and by the time he gets done explaining how hard it is to do everything in French all day, and how boring it’s going to be sitting in the computer lab with his distance learning, he can practically hear Kristen rolling her eyes.

“You are an idiot. Just ask for help.”

Oh. Right. “Well,” he says, waving at Jack when he comes in the room, “when you say it like that it sounds so easy. Fine.”

He swears he can hear her smile. “Any other problems I can help my big brother with?”

“Yeah, the family cat won’t cuddle with me--”

Kristen hangs up on him, and when he wanders over to the couch to find his charger, Jack points at the soda on the coffee table. “Thanks, man.” Generic lemon-lime, Kent’s favorite. “Hey, I got a favor to ask…”

Jack’s a better French tutor than Kent expects him to be. He can’t always tell Kent exactly why he’s wrong, but is really patient and seems to have a sixth sense about when to flip back to English, which amazes Kent. “How do you always know when I’m about ready to throw this dictionary at a wall? How do you do that?”

Jack just shrugs. “I’ve been doing this with my mom my whole life.”

Tutoring is pretty much icing on the cake of their roommate situation. Living with Jack is a sweet deal most of the time. He’s quiet, he doesn’t mess with Kent’s stuff, and his parents overnight the most ridiculous care packages in the world, stuffed with food and clothes and books that Jack insists on sharing. They spend one rainy Sunday pigging out on bagels and smoked meats; Kent could take or leave the bagels, but he’s pretty sure this is the best pastrami he’s ever had. When Kent protests that Jack should save some for himself, Jack shakes his head. “Maman always sends too much. You can treat me if I visit in Buffalo”

Kent laughs. “Beef on weck, sure.”

Jack wrinkles his nose. “Weck?”

“You’ll like it,” he says before shoving a quarter of a bagel in his mouth.

School’s still stressful, but knowing Jack’s got his back makes it easier for Kent to breath. He figures out pretty quickly how he can pay Jack back -- the Zimmermans employ multiple housekeepers, and no one has ever taught Jack how to do the most basic chores.

“For fuck’s sake, how much soap did you put in here?” Kent yells from where he’s frantically mopping at the suds that are all but covering the laundry room floor.

Jack runs in with more towels. “I don’t know! It was a lot of laundry! Maybe half the jug?” He lurches forward, loses his footing in the slippery soap bubbles, and crashes into Kent.

Kent gives up. “JAN!” he hollers.

When Jan makes it down stairs, she laughs so hard she has to sit down. Eventually, they bust out the wet vac and get everything cleaned up, and Kent teaches Jack how the caps on laundry detergent have measuring marks. He also teaches him how to properly make a bed, how to de-gunk a sink drain, and that there are, in fact, different cleaners for different things.

When Jack stands in front of their shower with a spray bottle of bleach and a vague look of horror on his face, Kent has a stroke of brilliance. “Hey, tell you what. I’ll take care of the shower if you take over vacuuming. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Sucker.

* * * *

He throws himself into practice, and their first preseason game comes up faster than Kent can believe. The stadium is packed that night and as Kent warms up he bites his tongue, the pain a reality check. There really are hundreds of people screaming for his team; he really is playing hockey in the Q. He only gets 5 minutes of ice time that night, but the assist he hands to Landsy is perfect, and Coach gives him a nod when he heads back to the bench. Kent may not have gone high in the draft, but it doesn’t matter now; he’s here, sweat in his eyes and his heart racing, chasing the puck up and down the ice.

Rimouski wins, 2-1.

* * * *

Hockey is consuming, but there’s school, too. Jack’s a studious guy, which is a huge relief, because Kent has an insane education plan to keep up with. In addition to his English language distance courses, he has a French tutor for private lessons and a teaching assistant to help him with his drop-in history class. Kent is auditing that class, but he likes to try to pick up as much as he can, and he likes that Jack is in it too. He’s determined to pass the language test so he can go into CEGEP next year.

They spend a lot of time at the kitchen table, studying and snacking, and one afternoon, Kent has a thought and throws a grape at Jack’s head to get his attention.

Jack looks up from his biology textbook. “What?”

Kent readies a second grape, making sure Jack sees it, and lobs it across. Jack neatly catches it in his mouth. “Ha! Awesome. Hey, French question. Why isn’t your name Jacques? Or is it?”

Jack grimaces. “No, it’s Jack.”

Kent hums. “Can I call you Jacques?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Jackie?”

“Still no.”

“Jack in the box? Jacknife? Jack….oh! Jack Strap! Haha, wait what--” Whatever Kent is going to finish with is lost in a whoosh of air as Jack tackles him to the ground. Their wrestling matches never last long, and soon enough, Jack has Kent pinned. Kent is laughing. “Okay. Jack is fine. But...c’mon. We’re bros. I can’t call you by your actual name. How about Zimms?”

Jack smirks. “I dunno Ken Doll.”

Shit. That’s good, way better than Parser. The boys would have a goddamn field day. Kent panics. “Pfft, don’t waste your time with such a lame effort, man.”

Jack laughs and stands, helping Kent up. “Okay, Kenny. Whatever you say.”

* * * *

Oceanic has their season opener, and they win in front of a screaming, sold out home crowd, with Kent getting a goal, and he feels like he can finally breathe. The knowledge that doing this, that dragging himself far from home to live and play with strangers, was the right choice finally sinks in, and is only further confirmed as they rack up more and more wins over the next couple of weeks. He’s got a great billet family, a great team, Jack and he are clicking on the ice and as friends, and his hockey is speaking for itself. This is exactly what he wanted.

Except that he’s so homesick he could cry. Kent’s on a roadie when Kristen birthday happens, and the pictures his mom sends just don’t make up for not being there. His teammates from Buffalo’s emails are dwindling as they get busy with their own season, and as awesome as his boys up here are, Kent still can’t follow all their stories and jokes when they’re talking fast or when he’s tired. He’s sick of feeling like a foreign exchange student, and he really misses his mom.

Then, one weekday afternoon, he follows Jack through the front door and stops deal in his tracks, inhaling deeply. Something smells _delicious_. “Zimms, oh my god, do you know what that is?”

Jack’s already to the kitchen, and by the time Kent catches up, his eyes confirm what his nose has already told him: Jan is making smothered pork chops, and they smell like home. She’s busy whisking gravy at the stove, but pauses when Kent comes up and kisses her on the cheek. “I made a phone call to your mother,” she says, dipping a spoon into the sauce. “Here, tell me if it’s right.”

It’s perfect. That night they eat pork chops with onion gravy and lumpy mashed potatoes, and Jan keeps the conversation in English and focused on silly stories from Jack and Kent’s childhoods. After they’re stuffed full of food, Kent calls his family, and a bit later when he climbs on to the huge couch in the den to watch tv, Kent feels lighter than he has since he left Buffalo. He wedges himself between Madeleine and Jack and he finally feels like he’s not so far from home. When the show is over, he wanders to the living room where Jan is reading, and flings his arms around her. “Thank you,” he whispers, as she pets his hair.

“I’ve been a billet mom for a long time, baby. I know when my boys need a little bit of home.” She nudges him to the side and picks her book back up, and he sits there for a bit, pressed against her, dozing on and off till she sends him to bed.

If Jack gets homesick, he doesn’t show it. He gets flown home when their schedule allows it, or to the resort towns on the East Coast where the Zimmermanns like to spend long weekends. Kent hates it when Jack’s gone; he can’t sleep at all.

Madeleine hates it when Jack leaves, too, because Kent gets bored. If he can’t get the boys to hang out, bothering Madeleine is a perfectly acceptable alternative. He’s made a ranking of nicknames and how much they seem to irritate her. Mads, Maddie, Lyn, Lynnie all get decent results, but Madcakes usually results in her screeching and throwing things at him. One afternoon in late October, he comes home early and catches her crying in the living room. Kent catches her as she tries to bolt. “Hey, Madeleine, c’mon. What’s up?” She won’t talk, so Kent walks her to the kitchen and sits her down at the table. By the time he’s got two cups of hot chocolate ready, she’s spilling about how her best friend’s dad is relocating to Toronto, and she just found out.

“Oh,” Kent says, piling an obscene amount of whipped cream onto her cup, “I know about people moving.” She shuts herself up in her room after the drinks are emptied, so Kent gives her space. Two days later, for the first time ever, she marches herself down the basement, pounds on the door till he opens it, then flings herself at him. He hug-walks her to the couch and they watch music videos on Kent’s shitty laptop for hours.

Before she heads up for bed, she gives him a peck on the cheek. “If you tell anyone about this I will deny it.”

Kent has no plans to do so, but he does text Jack, who’s at a charity event with his Dad, _I’m the fave brother, step up your game._

Jack’s reply comes hours later. _I am an only child. I do not compete for affection._

Kent groans and shoves his phone under his pillow. Sure, Jack. Sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys go through hazing in which they are blindfolded and put in a car. The next scene they arrive home, covered in flour and with shaved chests, but in good humor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties, pretty girls, and a penchant for holiday excess.

“Where’s the party at?” is the constant refrain from the team. Rimouski is small, so outside of hockey and school, there’s not a ton to do. Most of the time it’s just a half dozen boys hanging out at someone’s house, clearing out the fridge and talking shit while playing video games, but full on ragers do happen on the rare weekend days when they don’t have a game. There are plenty of guys old enough to buy alcohol, and plenty of girls from school to help them drink it. 

Kent hangs out with the girls more once he realizes that whatever is in their cups usually tastes like cupcakes or fruit, whereas the guys’ cheap gross beer always tastes like cheap gross beer. Plus, the girls like to play with his hair and tell him how cute he is, which he really appreciates, despite the endless amounts of shit he gets from the boys for it. “It’s cause you’re so fucking pretty, Parser,” Jimbo says, walking past the couch where Kent is sitting in the middle of three cheerleaders. 

“You know it, babe,” Kent fires back, sipping from his solo cup. Mmm. Apple-licious. 

He spends the next half hour talking up Jimbo, and the next time he walks by, Kent grabs him by a belt loop and tugs him down next to him. “I was just telling Stacey,” Kent says, gesturing with his cup to the brunette on his left, “about how you just annihilated St. John’s defence last week, and Stacey here knows her hockey and wants to know how you set up that 3rd period goal.”

He slips away a few minutes later. Kent is fine with Jimbo getting the girl. Truth is, his favorite activity at parties is annoying Jack and trying to get him to do stupid things. His success rate is low, even after he enlists Bammer as a co-instigator, but the handful of times Jack has caved are so worth the effort. 

“My man, Parser here has escalated the dare.” Bammer is hanging all over Jack, slurring into his ear. “You owe it to Canada --”

“I don’t see how,” Jack says, even as he’s eying the stairs, garbage can lid in his hands.

“Ugh, s’obvious. You owe it to our country to show Parser how it’s done!” Bammer finishes triumphantly before looking at Kent expectantly.

Kent thinks fast as Jack finally manages to extricate himself from under Bammer’s arm. “Bammer’s full of shit, but it’ll be hilarious no matter what. C’mon, Zimms. I mean, unless you think you can’t do it. I get it, making it down the stairs through the front door is probably impossible. It’s fine, bro. We’ll just live without knowing.” 

Jack clutches the garbage can lid harder. Kent whispers “Victory,” and settles in to watch _._

The Johnson’s drywall at the bottom of the stairs never quite recovers from The Sledding Incident. The season long ban from ever having another party there hurts, though; they had the sickest gaming system. Despite that, Kent wouldn’t trade the way Jack had laughed as he careened down the stairs for anything.

Most things that make Jack laugh are worth it.

Emily makes Jack laugh. 

* * * *

It’s their pre-Halloween party, a low-key thing on a Thursday, because they’ve got back to back home games over the weekend, and JD’s cousin, Emily, comes along, cute in a big witch hat with feather trim. She’s charming, all sunny smiles covering up a wicked sense of humor. Kent about busts his gut laughing at her impression of their coach. He drifts away from the room she’s in to find a soda, and by the time he makes it back, she’s sitting on the edge of a sofa over Jack, who’s looking up at her and smiling. Kent’s chest clenches when Jack laughs, a low chuckle that vibrates across the room.

“Emily’s pretty cool, huh?” Jack asks over breakfast the next day.

“Guess so,” Kent answers, blowing on his mug of tea. “Why?”

“She asked me out.”

His tea is still too hot, but Kent takes a long sip. His tongue only burns a little. “So? You gonna go?”

Jack wrinkles his nose at Kent. “Guess so.”

It’s just a coffee date, but Jack’s all bright smiles when he comes home from it, so Kent isn’t really surprised when a few days later he catches Jack making out with Emily in the library after school. He keeps running into them, at school, at home in the afternoons, after practice. Kent can’t be petty about it -- she’s pretty rad. He even ends up inviting her to his and Jack’s study group, and pretty soon Kent finds himself texting her almost as much as he texts Dutchy. He guesses she’s his friend, which is great. Kent will never say no to more friends.

He will, however, say no to ever hearing the word “sorry” again.

“Sorry,” Jack says, after Kent walks in on them on the basement couch, Emily’s shirt rucked up, both breathing hard. 

“Sorry,” Jack says, when he gets into Emily’s car after practice, instead of riding back with Jan. 

“Sorry,” Jack says, when he comes home late, hair messed up and lips red, waking up Kent from where he fell asleep on top of his history reading. 

Kent tries very hard not to think about the way his stomach drops every time Jack “sorry”s him over Emily. He tucks this away with all the other things he tries not to think about, but maybe that part of him is too full. Things are starting to spill over. The way Jack looks when he reaches the end of a hard math problem, the mix of relief and success that flickers across his face. The weird oldies he sings in the shower in the morning, his voice just rising above the noise of the water and the creaking basement pipes. The sliver of skin that seems to be perpetually showing between his shirt and his workout shorts, pale and lovely, almost begging Kent to touch. And the softness of his voice when he talks to Emily on the phone, all hushed words and breathy laughs, and how he gently, gently cups her face when he kisses her goodbye at the kitchen door. 

It’s getting really hard to keep all that tamped down, every day. 

It’s not till Kent sinks a goal in overtime against Hallifax that he realizes how fucked he is. Jack comes crashing into him, breath hot in Kent’s ear following a string of French Kent can’t even begin to decipher, and they skate off ice together, banging on Oiler’s facemask, and Jack is just lit up. He’s stripping off his gear and catches Kent’s eye and he smiles this huge smile that turns his whole face into something joyful, and Kent smiles back, and he’s done this a thousands times, he’s grinned at hundreds of teammates, but something about this moment clenches Kent’s gut and he knows, without a doubt, that he is so fucking gone on Jack Zimmermann. 

It’s awful.

Kent does like Emily a lot. She grew up with hockey boys, and the only thing she likes better than analyzing stats is chirping Jack with Kent while they hang out. She hits a rough patch with Kent when she keeps trying to set him up with her friends. 

“C’mon, I wanna double date.” Emily has given up even the slightest facade of doing her math homework. “Babe, back me up.”

Jack just furrows his brow in the direction of his laptop. “Keep me out of this.”

“You would totally like Amelia. She’s funny, she’s smart, and she’s seriously cute. Please let me set you up? Please?” Emily is selling it hard, all big, fluttery eyes.

Kent heaves a sigh. “I dunno, Ems. I mean, what if she’s cuter than me? How would I live with myself?”

Emily glares at him. “Fine. See if I care about you finding true love.”

“Hockey is his true love,” Jack mumbles.

Kent throws his pencil at him. “Pot, kettle.”

Emily just gets up and leaves. 

It would be easy, Kent thinks that night. It would be so easy to go on a date with Emily’s friend, to smile at the right times, to kiss her goodnight. He’s thought about it, about finding a nice Canadian girl to go on some dates with, but a nice Canadian girl isn’t who he wants. Who he wants is a dorky, sharp-tongued Canadian boy who snores and is scary good at hockey.

Emily doesn’t bring up double dates again. It’s not like there wasn’t any truth to what Jack said. Kent’s been in love with hockey his whole life, and right now hockey is loving him right back. He knows he’s got the skills--everyone on his team is the cream of the crop, but when Kent watches tapes of their games, he watches himself, and he just fucking shines on the ice, even playing next to so much talent. His coaches see it too, and he gets enough time on the ice that the older boys grumble, but they can’t hate him when they keep winning. The boys he played with back home knew if they got him the puck he’d get it in the back of the net, and the boys here are starting to see it, too. 

But now, now Kent has Jack, and is learning the sheer joy of having a teammate who pushes him to his limits, and then expects him to keep going. Kent’s crush on Jack might not be getting him anywhere but frustrated, but their hockey is building into something glorious.

Usually.

There is the one, miserable away game against the Remparts, when Kent keeps flubbing his passes, and their defense can’t get it together, and they lose, thoroughly and terribly. Jack storms out of the locker room, knocking a pile of sticks to the ground, and Kent follows him, catching up and shoving him into a corridor. “The fuck?”

“We played like shit.” Kent’s never seen Jack’s face like it is now, all hard lines and flashing eyes.

“Yeah, and we lost because of it, but no one else is having a goddamn temper tantrum.”

Jack shoves him aside and vanishes out the door to the loading dock, where their bus is waiting. He refuses to acknowledge Kent on the long ride home, in the basement that night, or the next day after school or at dinner. Kent doesn’t know what to do, but then Tim calls Jack up to his office. 

Later, Kent hears Jack come down the basement stairs while he’s in the bathroom. He takes his time washing his face and brushing his teeth before hesitantly stepping out into their shared space. Jack is sitting on his bed and looks up when Kent sits down next to him. “So,” Kent says, nudging Jack’s leg with his own.

Jack clears his throat. “It seems I may have overreacted,” and Kent can’t help it, he starts laughing and can’t stop, clutches his stomach and flops back onto the bed, howling. 

“You think?” he gasps, and then Zimms is chucking, and Kent can feel things clicking back into place. The next day, Jack pours Kent a glass of orange juice and asks about his chemistry homework, just like always. 

Then the team hits a winning streak, and Kent starts to wonder why the universe is out to murder him, because Jack Zimmermann after a loss is brutal, but a Zimmermann celly is a thing of beauty, and Jack’s on ice hugs are magical and worth working for. His joy of the game covers practices, too, where he’s more and more in sync with the team, and finally gets around to showing them that he actually likes them. It’s a lot. 

Kent has been practicing staying on the right side of hockey bro affection and rough housing for years, but living with Jack is making him let his guard down, and now that Jack’s hitting his stride with the team and is happy, the floodgates have opened. Jack likes to drape himself across people, and he does it some with Madeleine, who loudly complains about it while doing exactly nothing to escape, but he seems to be constantly touching Kent – sitting close next to him, leaning into his space while they look at a book together, jostling him at the dinner table when Jan isn’t looking. 

Plus, to add to Kent’s many problems in life, Jack’s affinity for wrestling is not limited to punishment for chirps. The boy will randomly tackle Kent at any hour of the day. Jan’s keeping a tally of broken dishware that they owe her replacements for, to be billed when they’re NHL stars making real money -- she’s looking to upgrade. 

It is the best thing and the worst thing ever. Kent would normally chalk it up to bros being bros, but there’s a thing he can’t quite ignore -- he keeps catching Jack watching him. At parties, at practice, at school. Maybe Kent only notices cause he’s so busy trying to sneak looks at Jack, but he can’t quite explain away the number of times he catches Jack watching him, followed immediately by Jack looking away quickly.

Kent pushes that away, keeps his head down and soon enough, it’s mid-November. 

“Jan, c’mon.” Kent can hear the whine in his voice. He’s sitting at the kitchen table while Jan preps dinner. 

Jan let’s out a sigh that is full of long suffering. “You are the most insufferable boy.”

Kent bats his eyelashes. “Which is why you love me. Two days off school. One hundred dollar food budget out of my allowance. And we get champagne.”

Jan turns and puts her hands on the table, leaning in to loom over Kent. “One day off school. Fifty for food, which Tim and I will cover. Sparkling apple juice.”

“Sold!” Kent crows.

On the third Thursday in November, Kent proudly serves his billet family, Jack, and Emily a Thanksgiving feast lovingly prepared while they were at work and school -- the turkey was pre-cooked and the pies were frozen, but Kent made the side dishes with love and care, ok? Madeleine crafted a beautiful table-scape, and with the lowered lights and candles, you almost can’t tell that Kent burned the stuffing. “We just did this a month ago,” Jack says as he fills his plate with turkey and green beans. “One wasn’t enough? Hah, kind of American, no? The bigger the better--Emily, that’s my leg you are kicking.”

Kent just smiles. “Put down your plate and hold my hand, Zimms, I’m gonna say grace.” When everyone is ready, Kent bows his head. “Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub, yay God, amen.” When he drops Jack and Madeleine’s hands and looks up, he’s greeted with a wall of confused faces. “Uh, Parson family traditional grace. The subtleties may have gotten lost in translation. Anyway, eat up, everyone!”

The family eats with gusto, Jack chirping him steadily. When Kent serves the pumpkin pie, he puts two slices on Madeleine’s plate. “Maddie gets your pie, Jack, because you’re being a real dick about things.” 

Madeleine eats both slices without breaking eye contact with Jack, and after she throws down her fork onto the empty plate, burps and accepts a high five from Kent. They leave the table to go watch Christmas movies with Emily while Jack and Tim do the dishes. Later, Jack wanders in and flings himself across Kent and Emily’s laps. “Fine, maybe having two Thanksgivings isn’t the worst thing ever, even if it feels weird eating a full turkey dinner in November.”

Kent shoves at him. “Ugh, get off me. It was weird for me eating one in October, you know. Just cause Canada can’t understand a calendar--”

“No wrestling on the couch, boys,” Jan says when she wanders by a few seconds later, “C’mon Jack, let him up. Americans are strange but we like this one.”

“Thank you,” Kent says, his words muffled by Jack’s shoulder.

* * * *

When Kent comes home one day after school, Jan is standing on the porch looking puzzled. “Honey, there’s a huge box here for you.” She points to a giant FedEx box, covered in “Fragile” stickers.

“Fra-gee-lay! It must be Italian!” Kent yells before tearing into it. His mother sent up what looks like and entire Walmart’s worth of Christmas decorations. 

The next day, Kent directs Jack where to stand so he can hold strands of lights up while Kent tapes them onto the basement walls. “I’m just saying,” Kent says, slapping a cardboard Santa cutout into place, “if Jan would just let me be in charge of the upstairs decorating too, we could really make this place look great.” He reaches for the next string of lights, lifting them off Jack’s arms.

“Parse, I don’t think the wiring is going to take any more.” Jack is draped in 3 more strings and wearing reindeer antlers that Kent had crammed onto his head. 

“Miracles happen at Christmas,” Kent explains cheerfully, bending over to plug in another string. 

The lights flicker, and Kent scrambles to unplug. 

“Miracles eh?” Jack deadpans.

“Shut up, Zimms.”

Even without more lights, the basement is a glorious riot of tacky, colorful decor. Jan and Tim put up a tree and a wreath, and Kent swallows his disappointment when they won’t let him special order a blow up snow globe for the yard. He refocuses and organizes a holiday cookie decorating party for the team. The boys gather to stamp out Christmas trees and Star of Davids, then go caroling while they bake, collecting canned goods for the local food pantry along the way. When they get back, there’s hot cocoa and a cookie decorating contest. Dutchy wins, and then it takes as long to clean up the wreckage after as it did to actually frost the cookies, but Kent will always treasure the image of Jack with a smear of green frosting across his cheek. 

The team splits for the break in the usual calamity, a huge team brunch after a bruiser of winning game. They’re all still bummed that none of their team made the roster for World Juniors, but the promise of family and festivities awaiting them at home is cheering. There’s a blur of cleaning and packing, and then Kent’s sitting in a cramped coach seat waiting to taxi back toward the states and home.

He munches on lopsided cookies all the way back to Buffalo, Jack’s holiday gift to him tucked in his duffle with the promise not to open it till Christmas day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties, a new friend, and unexpected travel plans.

When Kent walks into baggage claim, his whole family is waiting for him with posters and balloons. Kent drops all pretense, runs to his mom, and throws his arms around her, breathing in her perfume. “Hey baby,” she says, rubbing his back. “I think you got taller.”

He leaves the airport with Robbie on his shoulders and Kristen grudgingly dragging his gear bag; he’s ready to eat his weight in his mother’s cooking and not speak a single word of French for two glorious weeks.

When they get to the house, Robbie helps him lug his bags upstairs, but hesitates at the doorway to their room. “S’up, bud?” Kent waits while Robbie fidgets.

“Don’t get mad, but I took your bed.” Robbie opens the door, and Kent can see his favorite blanket spread out over the top bunk. 

“Awww, kiddo, that’s just looking out for me. I haven’t slept high for four months. Might fall out. Kent ruffles Robbie’s hair and flops onto the bottom bunk. “Oh yeah, this is perfect.” 

He falls asleep just like that. He wakes up an hour later, grabs his skates, and begs his dad to drive him and Robbie to the rink. Kent skates lazy laps, watching Robbie race around the middle. He’s faster, more confident as he weaves around the girls twirling in the center. He’s taller, too, Kent thinks, but his big, bright smile is exactly the same.

The next day, Kent wakes up and whacks his head against the support beams above him when he sits up. “That sounded bad,” Robbie says, still out of sight above. 

Kent rubs at his temple. He’s definitely going to have a bump. “Not too bad,” he lies. “Let’s go wake up Kristen.”

The days fly by in a blur of family and holiday cheer; it’s exactly where Kent wants to be, but he misses his boys and Kristen is getting on his nerves. It’s a relief when he gets a call from Justin Connor a few days before Christmas, inviting him to a bonfire at his place.

The party is gearing up when Kent arrives. Justin’s family has their house on a big piece of property just outside of town, and word got around that his older brother was bringing a keg. A bonfire is burning away, surrounded by clutches of teenagers holding red solo cups. It’s all familiar faces. Kent’s known most of these guys since kindergarten, so he makes the rounds, catching up with half a dozen people before getting drawn into conversation with the one new guy, who moved to town from Phoenix a few days after Kent left for Canada. “My replacement, huh?” Kent says, dropping down onto the log next to him. 

The boy raises one eyebrow and cocks his head, considering Kent. “I prefer to be called Brian, but suit yourself.” He looks Kent up and down, and Kent thinks _Oh_.

Full of beer and confidence, he licks his lips and watches Brian’s focus shift to his mouth. “You don’t look like a Brian.” He leans in a bit, letting their shoulders brush. 

“Hmm.” Brian answers, and Kent feels a thrill run through him. They chat for a bit -- Brian is on the football team and knows nothing about hockey. “Phoenix doesn’t really have the biggest market for sports played on ice,” he says apologetically. “So my heart's always gonna belong to football.”

“Bro, I was tailgating before I could walk,” Kent says, so they bullshit about the Bills and Kent points out people around the fire Brian might not have met yet, walking him over to the group of cool kids who are a grade ahead of them. They swing by the keg for more foamy beer, then sit down further from the fire, next to the barn where the headlights illuminating the festivities don't quite reach them. They settle in close, hip to hip, so it make sense for Kent to sling his arm around Brian, hoping it looks like a bro move if anyone is bothering to watch them. Kent feels Brian shiver. “Can’t quite deal with the cold yet?” 

Brian’s teeth are chattering. “F-f-f-fuck you hockey boy, come see how you do in 108 degrees in the summer.”

“Bleah, no thanks,” Kent says. “Deserts and me do not mix. I got winter in my blood.”

Brian puts his hand on Kent’s thigh and squeezes, gently. “Doesn’t feel like it. You feel pretty hot to me.” He lets his finger run along the seam of Kent’s jean, inching upward. 

“Oh?” Kent looks around; no one’s paying them any attention. “Maybe we should both go in for a bit?” He can blame the tremble in his voice on the cold.

“Yeah,” Brian says, letting Kent pulling him up. The head inside and Kent leads them to Justin’s bedroom. Kent makes a show of rooting around in the dresser. He finds a wool sweater and tosses it on the bed. “Warm up in here, and then you can put that on and we’ll head back out.”

Brian shuts the door and turns the lock. “Warm up, huh?” He slowly moves toward Kent and licks his lips. “I might be getting this wrong, but--” Kent takes a step forward and closes the distance between them.

Brian’s lips are cold, but his mouth is hot, and Kent thinks, slightly hysterically, about how glad he is he doesn’t have his braces anymore, and then Brian’s tongue is in his mouth, and Kent’s hands are grabbing Brian’s collar, and it is a lot, all at once. Kent tugs on Brian’s shirt, walking them backwards. When his legs hit the bed, he pitches himself back, landing with a bounce, and Brian laughs as he lands on his side next to him. Kent reaches out and runs his thumb over Brian’s lower lip -- it’s warm, now. “You’re warm,” Kent says.

Brian laughs, low and throaty. “Could be warmer.”

Kent breathes in, sharply. “I...this is…”

“Hey,” Brian says, pushing himself up on an elbow to look Kent in the eye. “This is fun, right?”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

“It’s just us, here, having fun, yeah?”

Kent worries his lip, buys himself a few seconds. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. “Haven’t had a chance to have a lot of fun before.”

“Not a problem,” Brian says, leaning down to kiss Kent again. 

* * * *

That night, he lays in the bottom bunk. He’s missed sleeping shirtless in his and Robbie’s overheated room -- the basement in Rimouski never gets quite hot enough. Rucking the covers down, Kent closes his eyes and drags his hands over his chest, down to the waist of his sleep pants, and back up. He runs his fingers over his collarbone, poking gently at the bruise there, then moving to tug at his sparse chest hair. Brian had followed the same path with his fingers and lips, gently biting and kissing at Kent’s neck and chest, then up again to his mouth, kissing him deep and hard. Kent had pushed him away when he went to unbuckle Kent’s belt, shaking his head. Brian immediately moved his hand and sat back, pulling Kent to sit in his lap. They had made out lazily, catching their breath, then straightened up and headed back out to the party, where everyone was way too busy drinking or trying to negotiate their own hook ups to have noticed their absence. 

In bed, Kent puts his hands down by his sides. He’s getting hard, touching himself and thinking of Brian’s mouth on his skin, but Robbie’s asleep above him, and getting up to head to the bathroom seems like too much effort. He rolls over and grabs his phone to make sure it’s on silent for the night. He has four missed texts. The first one he opens is from Brian.

_we should hang again before you leave txt me whenev_

The rest are from Jack.

_Hi_

_I accidentally packed your toothpaste instead of mine. Sorry._

_Having any fun without me?_

Kent rolls over, shoves his face into his pillow, and screams.

* * * *

The rest of break flies by. Christmas is a blur of gifts and family and so much food that even Kent has to admit defeat after his second helping of dessert. Kristen won’t speak to him over dinner -- she’s still mad that Kent had tried to pass off an autographed photo of himself as his present to her. Not even the gift card hidden in the frame behind the photo had calmed her down. Kent’s mom had laughed so hard she had to leave the room for a bit.

Robbie, on the other hand, almost cried when he got his gift, tickets up to Rimouski for President’s Day weekend in February. Oceanic has a home game that Saturday, and Jan and Tim had just blinked at Kent when he’d asked if Robbie could stay over. “As if one more kid in this house even registers,” Madeleine had clarified from where she was sprawled on the couch. 

Kent’s packing the last of the torn up wrapping paper into a garbage bag when he remembers Jack’s gift, tucked away in his duffle, and runs upstairs to open it. 

It’s an envelope, and after he opens it and sees what inside, he can only stare in disbelief.

Jack bought Kent a flight to Montreal for New Year’s Eve. 

“I bought him an ugly Christmas sweater,” Kent whispers in horror to his empty bedroom. He knew they were good friends, but this is a lot. 

He calls Jack to thank him. The noise on Jack’s side of the conversation makes Kent think he’s out to dinner. “Oh, yeah, my parents will be out of town, so I figure we can hang out and head back up together after, yeah? I mean, if it works for your schedule, if not the ticket is refundable.”

Yeah. Of course. Very practical.

Two nights before Kent is scheduled to head up to Montreal, Brian picks him up in a borrowed car. Kent’s spent break eating and drinking his way through things not found in small towns in Canada, so he directs Brian to the local Sonic and orders the biggest cherry limeade he can, with extra cherries. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you,” he croons at the cup when Brian hands it over. Brian gets a strawberry lemonade, and Kent can taste the sweetness of it when he kisses him later, parked behind the football field, where the dark and the rise of the visiting team’s bleachers hide the car from the street. The windows are fogged up, and in the backseat Kent is laying down, shirt unbuttoned, trembling as Brian runs his hand down his bare chest and pauses at his belt buckle, looking at Kent.

Kent takes a deep breath, and nods.

* * * *

It turns out his plane tickets to Montreal are first class because Jack just assumes that is a normal type of gift to give someone for Christmas. Jack is waiting for him by baggage claim, and Kent launches himself into him, hard enough to make him stagger. He can feel Jack laughing, breath hot against his neck. “Aww, c’mon, man. I might start to think you missed me.”

“Fat chance!” Kent says cheerfully, moving to sling his arm around Jack’s waist. “Any way your dad let you drive his Ferrari to come get me?”

Jack rolls his eyes and leads them out to curbside pick up, where the Zimmermann family’s driver, quickly introduced as Claude, is waiting for them beside a black town car. He delicately places Kent’s dinged up hockey bag and suitcase in the trunk.

Oh, Kent thinks. 

Half an hour later, Claude pulls up to an honest to god mansion, complete with a gated drive and security system. Jack hops out of the car, frowning at Kent’s confusion. “Claude will bring your bags up, c’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

“Uh,” Kent says, scrambling to follow Jack up the pathway to the front door. 

The Zimmermann estate, it turns out, has 5 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms, a media room, and a hot tub. Kent takes a moment to compose himself in his guest bedroom. He goes into the en suite to wash his face, and stands with water dripping onto his shirt as he wonders which of the 5 towels draped perfectly across the gold bar next to the mirror he’s allowed to use. They all look like his mom’s fancy “decoration only” towels. He gives up and uses his sleeve instead.

He’s rooting through his bag for clean socks when Jack knocks at the door, grinning. “I didn’t show you the best part, yet.”

Ten minutes later, Kent is flying across the ice of Bob Zimmermann’s backyard skating rink, sun on his face and Jack hot on his heels. They play till they get cold, and then shuck their skates and sprint to the deck where Jack has the hot tub bubbling away. Jack strips to his boxers and jumps in, so Kent does the same. They horse around a bit, splashing and dunking, then settle on the deep benches, the jets of water pummeling their shoulders. Kent closes his eyes, letting the heat soothe him. 

When he opens them again, Jack is staring at him. 

“What?” Kent asks.

Jack pushes himself across the tub, stopping just short of where Kent is sitting. He reaches out and puts two fingers against Kent’s jaw, turning his head slightly and frowning.

“Is that a hickey?”

Kent can feel himself starting to blush as Jack pulls away, so he slips under the water. By the time he surfaces for air, Jack is on the deck toweling off and heading inside.

That night, Kent makes pasta and Jack makes salad, and they eat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, legs knocking together under the counter. Jack’s eyes keep drifting to Kent’s neck. Kent twirls spaghetti onto his fork and licks his lips before blowing on it. “How’s Emily?” he asks, taking a bite.

“Huh?”

“Emily. Your girlfriend. Brunette, about 5’7”? Likes to bust my chops whenever possible?”

“Oh. She’s good. Busy.”

“That’s nice.” Kent says. “Pass the garlic bread.”

* * * *

Jack takes Kent around Montreal. Kent can’t get over how the city was built for winter; they walk for hours underground, going from shop to shop, getting crepes and hot chocolates. Jack steers them into a shoe store. Kent checks the prices on a pair of hi-tops and resigns himself to window shopping. Jack finds a salesman and is soon trying on a half dozen pairs.

“Mom told me I need a new pair of dress shoes. Do these count?” 

Kent looks down and frowns. “No.”

Jack opens the next box. Kent’s getting bored. “This underground mall thing is cool.”

“Did you not know about it?” Jack asks.

Kent shakes his head. “Not when I came up with my family this summer. We walked around a lot, though. There was this cool place with pink garland over the street or something.”

“Oh yeah, the Gay Village. My mom likes the karaoke bars. One has a drag queen who dresses up like her in the 80’s.”

“Zimms. _Zimms_.”

“I’m right here, what?” Jack grunts as he bends over to try on a pair of loafers.

“My new life goal is to do karaoke with your mom in the Gay Village.”

Jack stands and walks over to the mirror. “Okay, I can see how that’s better than winning a Stanley Cup.”

“Those shoes are hideous.”

“So’s your face. They’re comfortable.”

“They’re not dress shoes,” Kent says, wrinkling his nose. “If you’re gonna buy those you can’t tell your mom I was involved. I want her to like me.” 

“I’m going to tell her you picked them out special.”

“Thanks, pal. Knew I could count on you.”

That night, in Bad Bob’s guest bedroom, Kent stares at the ceiling and relaxes his body the way his mom taught him, from his toes to the tip of his head, slowly, slowly. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet. To his surprise, he falls asleep almost instantly. 

* * * *

New Year’s Eve is quiet. They’re too young to get into the good clubs in the city, and most of Jack’s friends are still out of town, so they queue up a bunch of movies and hibernate in the media room. One of Alicia’s friends checks in on them in the early evening, stopping by on her way to a party. She tosses her huge, white fur coat over a kitchen chair, revealing a short, sequined dress under that. She’s brought a massive shopping bag full of roast chicken and vegetables and a loaf of sourdough bread, and spends a few minutes putting containers of food into the fridge and interrogating Jack about how his life is going. Kent’s seen her face on his mother’s fashion magazines for years. He’s not sure he’s ever seen such a beautiful woman in real life, and feels dazed when she hugs him goodbye, her perfume in his nose and the softness of her coat under his fingers. As she pulls away he rubs at the sleeve. “You smell amazing and I never want to stop touching this,” he whispers.

“It’s faux,” she says with a wink. “But really good faux. Jack, I expect phone calls from you. Plural. I know they have phones up north.” She gives Jack a hug and kisses his cheeks, and then she’s gone.

Kent stands in the kitchen, dazed and flushed. Jack pokes at his arm. “She’s literally old enough to be your mom.”

“Oh my god. What the fuck did I say to her? I don’t remember.”

Jack pats Kent’s shoulder. “You were super smooth.”

“Ugh, shut up. Some of us haven’t been around models our whole lives.”

Jack laughs. “Wanna hear about the time I got babysat by an entire calendar’s worth of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models? I mean, that’s pretty much the whole story. I was five.”

“I hate you,” Kent manages, before Jack gives up on him completely and starts looking in the cabinet for a box of brownie mix.

They eat their dinner on one of the giant, overstuffed couches in the media room, then flick between sitcom marathons till midnight is less than an hour away. “Okay, it’s Seacrest time,” Kent says, shoving Jack and stealing the remote. Jack shoves him back, then gets up and pulls Kent with him so they can head down to the wine cellar; there’s enough champagne that a couple bottles won’t be missed. Taking their spoils back upstairs, they reorganize the nest of covers on the couch and settle in. It’s 10 minutes till ball drop, and Kent’s drunk half a bottle of champagne; he’s warm from the alcohol and the blankets and Jack, who’s pressed firm against his side. Times Square is gearing up. “They look cold,” Kent says.

“Mmmm.” Jack shifts, setting his glass down on the floor and tucking his feet up under the covers.

“Oh no, it’s too early. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Mmmm.”

“Aw, c’mon. Someone’s gotta kiss me at midnight,” Kent says, jabbing his fingers into Jack’s side.

“Ugh, fine.” Jack leans over and presses a messy kiss to Kent’s temple as Kent tries to shove him away. 

“Nooo, at midnight! Why are you like this?” Kent is too pinned in by blankets to defend himself, and soon there’s popcorn everywhere as Jack puts him in a headlock and gives him a noogie. They’re both red-faced and laughing when the settle back into their seats, counting down the last seconds of 2007. When the countdown hits zero, Jack leans over and kisses Kent on the cheek. 

“Happy New Year, Kenny.”

“Gonna be our year,” Kent says.

They make it through another 20 minutes of musical acts and bad jokes before they start yawning and decide to clean up and go to bed. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day, bad news from home, and Kent Parson vs the world's most put upon guidance counselor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is major drama for the Parsons this chapter that changes the structure of their family. No one dies, no one is injured. I summarized what happens in the end notes. Please check there first if anything I just wrote makes you nervous.

Kent bounds into the kitchen, Jack trailing behind him, and makes room in the ocean of papers stuck on the fridge for his latest French practice exam. “Look, Mads, I got a 95 on speaking proficiency!” 

Madeleine just rolls her eyes. “And now it's covering up the 99 I got on my chem test.” 

“C’mon, Maddykins, tell me you're proud of me.” Kent leans over the back of her chair, wrapping his arms around her and blowing a slobbery raspberry against her cheek. She shrieks as she tips to the side fast enough to take Kent with her to the floor. 

About two minutes later, she has him pinned by the oven, and then she's up and off down the hall, crowing about finally winning a wrestling match. 

“Would you believe I was holding back and let her win?” Kent’s only wheezing a little. 

Jack helps him up and slaps him on the back. “No, but only because I've been helping her practice getting out of holds.”

“Traitor!” Kent launches himself at Jack. 

He loses his second wrestling match of the afternoon about 30 seconds later. Casualties include his dignity, and one chair. Jan’s pride over his practice quiz doesn't quite cover her dismay about the chair. 

Mishaps with home furnishings aside, the year is going well. Kent and Jack and Emily resume their regular study sessions. As good as Kent’s speaking is, his writing needs a lot of work, and he's got an exam to pass in March. 

The school assigns him a writing tutor, a lovely older woman who reminds Kent of his departed nana, if his nana were the sort to mercilessly come down on Kent’s lazy sentence structure and paragraph formation. 

The boys pitch in too, putting up vocabulary words around the locker room and quizzing Kent on road trips. It’s equal parts irritating and endearing. Kent would bet his skates on the fact that Jack’s behind it, because there’s no way Moskowski is dropping college level words into his laments about his athlete’s foot by chance. 

With all that going on, it’s almost a relief to come home to a slurry of casual French and English. 

One night, overwhelmed by an increased practice schedule and the upcoming game against the League's top team, Kent begins lamenting about his chances of passing. “I'm tired of studying all the time. Some of the other boys don't even go to class and they’re still pulling B’s.” 

“Be better than the boys.” Jack never takes his eyes off the notebook page he's highlighting. “You'll be in better shape to be a captain one day if you speak other languages.”

It's not that the idea of one day captaining an NHL team had never danced across Kent’s deepest, most cherished desires. “Shut up, Zimms.”

Jack finishes marking the page and looks up. “Well, at any rate, your accent is minimal enough now that I’m having a hard time coming up with good chirps about it.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “I’m so soorey aboot that.” 

Jack frowns. “See if I ever help you with another essay.”

He does, the next day. Sometimes Jack is just easy like that.

* * * *

Sometimes, though, Jack is the polar opposite of easy.

Kent can deal with being on the receiving end of Jack’s rough housing, he can deal with having to understand that the way Jack slings his arm around his shoulder, or leans against him in cars and on buses so he can doze, is just part of their friendship. Even the way he frowns at and gently inspects Kent's ever present game bruises, fingers ghosting over the dark blotches before sighing and grabbing the arnica, or how he silently passes over his tube of Chapstick when Kent’s biting at his chapped lips, is just Jack being a good teammate and friend. . 

Jack still watches him, brief glimpses when he probably thinks Kent isn't looking, but Kent isn't going to think on that, ever.

One weekday night, Kent heads to bed a few hours early. He and Jack had lost track of time after practice that afternoon, leaving the rink even later than usual, and that extra exertion following their weekend of back to back away games had left him wiped. He announces that he is turning in shortly after dinner and gratefully crawls under his blankets, ready to pass out. 

Except he just can't sleep. 

The basement is too quiet, and as tired as he is, it’s like his body just knows it should still be awake. 

It's creeping toward midnight, and Kent hates everything right now. He has a crack of dawn Skype date to give Kristen a pep talk for her drama team tryouts, and he really would like to be asleep. 

He hears Jack come down the stairs, being quiet as usual, but Kent can still follow the sounds around the room -- the swush of the dresser drawer being opened and closed, the soft rustle of Jack changing into pjs, and the barely noticeable creak of the bed across the room. 

Maybe matching his breathing to Jack’s will help. Kent silently waits for Jack to settle and drift off. 

He doesn't. 

The sounds coming from Jack’s side of the room are hushed and rhythmic, but definitely not of the variety that's going to help Kent sleep. 

He really didn’t need to know exactly what Jack getting himself off while trying to be quiet sounds like, but now he does, and he’s never gonna get those soft whimpers out of his mind, like, ever.

Kent doesn’t fall asleep till 2am, but he’s still bright eyed for Kristen at 6:30. 

“You’re gonna ace it, K-dog.”

“Thanks. Uh, are you okay?”

Kent blinks at her via computer. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

Kristen shrugs. “I dunno. You seem a little on edge.”

_I heard my best friend and the object of my most guilt inducing jerk off fantasies have an orgasm about 10 feet away from me last night_ , Kent thinks.

“Must be the lighting or something,” Kent says. “Anyway, break a leg. Love you.” 

“You too, you nut.”

* * * *

The care package that arrives from Montreal in early February contains a cashmere sweater in a shade of blue that’s just darker than Jack’s eyes, and when he puts it on Kent almost dies. 

It’s mostly because when Jack comes out from the bathroom in the sweater, Kent is trying to take a drink of Gatorade while hanging upside down off their brokedown couch, so his gasp turns into sputtering choking. 

The sweater clings to Jack perfectly and the color sets off his pale skin and dark hair.

“Nice sweater, Mr. Rogers.” Kent wheezes, hauling himself upright and using his sleeve to mop off his face.

“Huh?” 

“Oh, c’mon. Does Canada not have Mr. Rogers? For real?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “My parents’ house in Pittsburgh sure did.”

Kent switches tactics. “Did your mom send matching underwear, too?”

Jack walks over to Kent and waves his arm in his face. “Feel.”

Kent strokes the soft fabric and sighs. “Oh, yeah. I’d totally wear underwear made out of that.”

“You are so strange.”

The sweater is for Jack’s Valentine’s date with Emily. Jack’s plan is to meet after she finishes her dance class, then bundle up and walk to a new art gallery a few storefronts away before heading to a cafe that specializes in chocolate fondue. 

Kent has to admit that it sounds like a great date. His petition to get Jack to let him third wheel was not successful, so Kent will be at home with Madeleine, eating ice cream straight out of the carton. 

He doesn’t really care -- Valentine’s Day just means that Robbie’s visit is almost here. He misses him, and phone calls just aren't enough. He made a countdown calendar a month ago, which Jack had chirped him relentlessly for. Kent glances over at it . Nine more days.

On Valentine’s Day Kent beats Jack home from practice. He’s just settling onto the couch to dig into his math homework when his phone rings. He extracts it from the depths of the cushions. It's his mom; he manages to answer just before it goes to voicemail. “Hi, Mom. Happy Valentine’s Day. You and dad doing dinner and a movie, or a movie and dinner?”

“Kent--” his mom’s voice breaks.

Kent freezes. “Tell me. Whatever it is. Tell me now.”

His mother draws in a ragged breath. “They found Robbie’s father.”

“Robbie’s dad is dead.”

There’s a pause, then Kent’s dad’s voice comes over the line. “Son, you’re gonna want to sit down.”

Half an hour later, Jack comes thumping down the stairs to find Kent a hiccuping, sobbing mess. By the time Jack gets Jan on the phone at work and back to the house, Kent’s shattered his cellphone against the wall and is laying on the floor in a miserable heap. Jan dispatches Jack to find the cordless from upstairs. She hauls Kent up onto the couch and wraps one arm around him, bringing his head to rest on her shoulder and stroking his hair.

When Jack returns with the phone, Jan gets Kent’s dad on the line. Kent sits up enough that he can hear, too. He can tell his dad has already told this story a few times; there’s a tired sureness to the narrative, words repeated and retraced. 

Robbie’s newly found biological father, James, had left Buffalo for Raleigh years ago, after being dealt the double blow of losing his job and finding out that his new girlfriend, Robbie’s mom, was already another man’s wife. Her husband never found out about the affair, and his name had gone on Robbie’s birth certificate. When James finally came back to town, he’d looked up his old friends, and a comment here and a photo there led him to eventually put some pieces together about his ex’s kid, a nine-year old with James’ mom’s nose and the sleepy-looking hooded eyes that ran through most of his daddy’s family. He visited Robbie’s mom in jail, and she admitted there was a chance Robbie might be his. A DNA test came back positive, and James now has a son.

It’s a success story, really. Local boy leaves, flourishes, comes home, and finds his family. _Hallmark would shit a brick to have this story,_ Kent thinks hysterically and unhelpfully. 

Robbie is on a flight to North Carolina in two weeks to move in with his dad and his girlfriend. International travel is definitely not happening in the interim. After hearing that, Kent slinks down enough that the voices on the phone become background static. 

He doesn’t realize Jan’s hung up until she tugs him closer. “Your father told me to remind you that the goal of foster care is to reunite families. Your mom took a sedative and went to bed. Kristen isn’t home from practice so she doesn’t know yet, and Robbie is with his caseworker and his dad.”

“We have the same dad.” Kent’s voice is shredded. “We were gonna adopt him. Robbie’s as much a Parson as I am. Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t I know this was happening?”

“Oh, baby.” Jan rubs her hand up and down Kent’s arm. “Jack, honey, can you call Tim and tell him to contact the school and your coach? Kent’s gonna take a couple days off.” Kent hears Jack leave. He’s not sure how long it is before he cries himself out and falls asleep, Jan murmuring softly in his ear. 

When he wakes up, Jack is there. “Hi. Hungry?”

Kent rubs at his face. “No. What time is it?”

“Almost 8. You should eat anyway.”

He and Jack eat microwaved leftovers upstairs. Madeleine keeps shooting pitying glances at Kent till Jack kicks her out of the kitchen. Kent doesn’t quite remember getting back down to the basement or getting into bed, but he does remember Jack turning out the lights and climbing in next to him, putting one hand on his back. “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

The next morning, Kent wakes up aching and too hot, with Jack’s arm thrown across his chest and Jack’s legs twined with his. It’s a few seconds before things fall into place.

“Jack, wake up. We’re gonna be late for school.”

Jack opens one eye. “Not going. Got permission. Go to sleep.” Then he rolls over so that Kent’s even more trapped, Jack’s torso a solid, grounding weight across him.

When Kent wakes up again, Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, reading. He hands Kent a bottle of water. “Take a shower and come upstairs. I’ll make breakfast.”

The pancakes Jack makes are terrible. Kent cleans his plate. 

That night he gets a call from Robbie, who is all bubbling joy about his father and his upcoming move. “He has a dog! I saw pictures! His name is Milo and dad promises he’ll like me and won't bite. And I got a sister!”

“That's great, buddy. I'm going to come visit you as soon as I can, ok?”

“Ok. My dad --” Kent flinches, “-- says I can feel sad about not seeing you and happy about him at the same time.”

“You sure can. Sounds like he's super smart, just like you. I gotta go, ok? Love you, kiddo.”

“Smell you later!”

Kent manages a laugh. “I still regret teaching you that.”

He hangs up, then finds Jack upstairs. “We’re going to the rink.”

Jack checks his watch. “It's 8:30,”

“I know.”

They don’t talk on the way there, or while they’re lacing up their skate. The rink is bathed in low light; the sound of the gate swinging open as they skate onto the ice echoes. 

Kent skates laps, fast and furious, Jack struggling to keep up and eventually leaving to sit on the bench, eyes tracking Kent. When his legs are burning and he feels like he might throw up, he stops, his heart pounding. 

“Kent?” Jack's voice booms across the empty bleachers. “You want to go home, now?”

_I want to fight you_ , Kent thinks. _I want to touch you till we both come. I want you to yell at me, to shake me, to fuck me, to do anything to stop how I'm feeling now,_

“Yeah. Let's go home.”

Kent stays home from school, and Jack brings him meticulous notes from their classes till he’s ready to go back. He hovers over him at practice till Kent snaps at him, then he takes him out for McDonald’s fries and shakes. He’s even around for Kent’s regular Saturday afternoon phone calls to Kristen, so they put it on speaker, and it’s more fun than Kent expected. They don't talk about Robbie. They bullshit about classes and their friends; Kristen and Jack totally gang up on Kent, and when he laughs it doesn’t feel so hollow. 

“Jack, what are you doing later? Please tell me you’re not hanging out with my loser brother on a Saturday night?”

“Rude,” Kent counters. “But, seriously, I think I can handle one night alone if you want to go out with Emily or something. When was the last time you two even hung out?”

Jack clears his throat. 

“What?” Kent asks.

“We...broke up.”

“WHAT?” Kent yells. The sounds of Kristen quickly saying goodbye barely register. “Explain, now.”

“I kept ditching her and she got mad.”

“Jack.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I kind of forgot to call her on Valentine’s Day to cancel and she ended up sitting alone for an hour before her dad could come get her, and then I kind of didn’t answer her calls for a few days, and she got really mad.”

“Define ‘a few days.’”

“...four.”

“You dick.”

“I was helping you!”

“You were an asshole.”

“I was busy!”

Kent rolls his eyes. “I could have spared you for two minutes to call your girlfriend and tell her that you had to take care of my sad ass and would see her soon, which she would have been fine with, and you know it.”

“Just drop it.”

A week later Kent calls Emily himself. He misses her, and if Jack ignored her just to keep Kent’s family drama private, Kent owes him to try to smooth things over. She takes him out for hot chocolate at the best patisserie in town. 

“What have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in a while.” Emily swipes a spoonful of Kent’s whipped cream before he can snatch his cup away. 

He glowers at her as she laughs. “Oh, you know. Family stuff.”

“Isn’t your brother supposed to be visiting soon?”

Kent sips his drink, buying time. He’s known Emily for months, and she’s a good friend. On the other hand, he’s really not sure he can talk about Robbie and not cry. 

He shrugs and hopes it looks casual as he sets down his cup. “So, that trip ended up not working out. Kind of a bummer.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah, so anyway, you should take Zimms back.”

“What?” 

“He didn’t mean to be a terrible boyfriend. I kind of roped him into a thing and it took up his time.”

“A thing?” Emily regards him for a long second, and the truth dances on the end of his tongue. He should just tell her, she’d understand. Before he can, she purses her lips and sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t even want to know. It’s fine.”

Kent’s never felt less fine. “Are you sure?”

Emily laughs. “We’re 16 and his whole world is hockey, and mine is dance. We barely have time to see each other now, and senior year is going to be worse. Plus, if I get in that program in Toronto for next year--”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, that’s a whole other story. Anyway, it’s not like he and I were going to get married or something. All you did was expedite the inevitable.”

Kent does feel better, but he can’t help but add, “He got a really nice sweater for his date with you.”

“Be still my heart. Finish your cocoa, and I’ll tell you about Toronto. So, there’s this really good ballet program -- ”

A few weeks later, Emily starts showing up at study group again. It’s awkward for a bit, but things level out.

 

Sort of.

Ever since Valentine’s Day, Jack keeps ending up in Kent’s bed. It’s almost logical -- Kent has a bigger mattress, and it’s way more fun to sprawl out to study or to collapse together after really grueling practices and games than it is to sit at the kitchen table where Maddie is constantly interrupting, or on their broken down couch with the busted springs. 

Midterms are coming up, and one night they both stay up too late talking smack, class notes mixed with hockey plays spread out between them and totally ignored. They fall asleep fully clothed with the lights on; at some point, Jack wakes up enough to shut off the lights and get to his own bed. 

A few days later, they’re crowded under the covers around Kent’s ancient laptop, trying to watch a scary movie. They shut out the lights for atmosphere, but between the movie’s boring plot and the dark room, they both pass out right after the first murder. This time, Jack stays. 

The next night, Kent’s pillows smell like Jack. He watches him sleep from across the room, the faint glow of the night light in the bathroom just barely illuminating his face. His dark hair is a mess, and there’s a definite possibility that he’s drooling. 

Kent turns to face the wall and falls into an uneasy sleep.

Three days later, he drops by his guidance counselor’s office, settling into the comfier of the terrible, ancient chairs by the desk. “Pete. Peter. Petey. I know you can see me.”

“Yup.” Pete’s desk is covered in stacks of paper and old coffee cups. It’s gross, and it’s also one of Kent’s favorite places in the building. “I told you yesterday that you passed your language exam. You’re all set for CEGEP next year. Yet you continue to be a giant pain in the ass.”

“It hurts sometimes, Pete, how much you love me.”

Pete sighs, opens a desk drawer and offers Kent a jar of candy. “Seriously, Parson. What do you want?”

“A little help.” He chooses a miniature chocolate bar, the kind he knows Pete stocks specifically for him.

Pete reaches into his endless stacks of paper and extracts Kent’s file. “What are we helping you with this time?” 

Kent pauses. There’s a list he keeps in the back of his mind, a list of things that truly terrify him. Spending a few years on a farm team and fading into obscurity. A bad injury that leaves him back home in Buffalo, unable to even skate. Being a C-list local celebrity, a guy who almost made it, but didn’t, and now owns a car dealership.

Kent knows hockey is it for him; he’s married to the game. He’s not going to college, he’s not inheriting a family business, or striking out on his own. He’ll do whatever it takes to get drafted, and he knows it.

The thought of not getting drafted is, at best, unthinkable.

He might be done with school forever in a year, but he is going to allow himself this, a little indulgence, a little lie that he has paths forward, plural. 

Explaining all this to Pete is a daunting prospect. 

“I just want to keep up the more, uh, academic side of my French. You know, just something a little beyond locker room shit talking. Maybe meet with someone who, you know, reads books?”

Pete’s moustache twitches. “You’re telling me the team doesn’t take turns reading Dostoevsky aloud between periods?”

“He wrote _War and Peace_ , right?”

“Lord, save me from hockey players. I got a kid who graduated last year looking for some volunteer hours. I’ll make something happen if you promise you won’t darken the door of my office for at least a week.” 

“I know I’m your favorite, it’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.” Kent nimbly dodges the ball of paper Pete throws at him as he leaves.

That night, Jack sees the edits Kent has made to the family calendar to add his tutoring times. “What is this?” he asks. “You already passed. You can practice your French with me. This is less time for practice and we have playoffs coming up.”

Tim comes up behind Jack and puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I think it’s great that Kent's trying to expand his horizons.”

“No one asked your opinion,” Jack says, flinging Tim’s hand off and stomping away.

Kent sighs and follows Jack outside. 

“The fuck?” he asks when Jack comes to a halt at the edge of the front porch. It’s freezing, and neither of them have on more than sweatshirts and jeans. 

Jack stares off toward the street. “Your French is very good.” They’re both shivering. “The whole team helps you, I help you, the family. Why more?”

Kent wraps his arms around himself. “It’s not about that.”

“Then why are you wasting more time on something that isn’t helping your hockey?”

Kent watches his breath turn white in the cold air and thinks about Jack. His fierceness on ice. How he can shut out everything that isn’t winning when he’s playing. His goddamn last name. Everyone knows he’s going to make it. 

He’s never been a no-name kid who barely got into the league, playing on a team in the wrong country, desperately carving out something for himself. 

It’s not like he can tell Jack this.

“I dunno. It’s just that I’ve lived here for months and I don’t know anyone outside the team--”

“You know Emily.”

“Yeah, but Emily’s got that dance thing in Toronto and is going to be gone in the fall and you know it. And then --”

_It’s just you, really, and you won’t be around forever, either,_ Kent thinks. _You’re gonna find another girlfriend and I’m going to lose you to the draft anyway, and I'm going to be selfish about this one thing even if you're mad._

“--uh, you know. It’s not fair for me to monopolize your time.”

Jack scowls and heads back inside, slamming the door. Kent stands on the porch, wondering what the hell just happened.

Jack hides away in the upstairs office for the rest of the night, and Kent’s almost asleep before he comes down to basement, but instead of heading to the bathroom or his side of the room, he comes to stand beside Kent’s bed. Kent rolls over to look up into the dim room. He can just make out Jack’s face. “Wha? I’m sleeping.”

Jack shifts on his feet. “I like helping you.” 

Kent sighs. “I like you helping me, too. It’s not like you’re gonna have to stop correcting me any time soon, I still make tons of mistakes.”

“Yes, you are still pretty bad.” There’s not quite enough light, but Kent could swear Jack is almost smiling.

“Ugh, whatever. It’s 4 hours a week. You won’t even miss me.”

“You’ll miss me. I’m very good at French.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

Kent hears Jack walk away, then the soft thunk of the bathroom door closing and water running. A few minutes later, Kent can feel him standing by his bed again. “What?”

Jack clears his throat. Kent rolls his eyes and throws back the covers. “C’mon, loser. Get some sleep. We have to give Mads’ boyfriend the shovel talk tomorrow when he comes for dinner. Rest up.”

“Shovel talk?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow.”

As Jack makes himself comfortable next to Kent, Kent takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know how to say “self preservation” in French, and he’s not about to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Robbie is reunited with his biological father and is moving to live with him. Kent finds out from his mom through a phone call and is very upset. Robbie is ecstatic to have his "real" dad in his life, though he is also sad that he won't be visiting Kent. 
> 
> I am very nervous about this chapter -- I don't want Robbie to be a plot device. He and his father, who is super awesome, will be big parts of Kent's life in future parts of the story; Robbie, his father, and the Parsons will work together to make sure Robbie transitions into his new life well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this got longer than expected, so I upped the chapter count by one. I tinkered with this post-beta, so if anything is glaringly wrong/weird, feel free to give me a heads up.

His phone vibrates under his pillow, and Kent groans before grabbing it and shuffling into the bathroom and closing the door. 

“Hi, Robs.”

“I wanna go home.”

Kent chews on his lip, just a bit. It's still sore from where he worried it to the point of bleeding a few days ago. “I wanted to go home when I came up here, too.” 

The line is quiet; Kent can just make out the soft sounds of Robbie’s breath. “I missed you and mom and dad so much. I even missed Kristen.” A sniffle comes across, so Kent pauses, but no words follow. He sighs. “But then I realized that Jack and the Olsens were pretty cool, and I got used to it, and now I like it a lot.”

The silence stretches on, then Robbie speaks. “You were so happy, though.”

“Yeah, I was. But you make me really happy too. I miss you every day, kiddo.” Kent hears the rustle of blankets and a sudden labored breathing. “Is Beauregard in bed with you?”

“Yes, but don't tell. He's supposed to sleep on the floor.”

“I won't. You ready?”

“Yes. One, Alana laughs when I tickle her and she's getting teeth now..”

“Two, I got a goal last night.”

“Three, Beauregard ate my green beans for me at dinner and Christine didn’t notice.”

Kent laughs. “Four, Jan made chocolate cupcakes, and I ate three.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of cupcakes. Were they as good as Momma Sue’s?”

One of the first Skype therapy sessions with Robbie, his birth family, and the Parsons had been about names. Robbie now has Daddy Paul and Momma Sue, and Daddy James and Christine. 

Kent thanks his lucky stars every, single day that James has consistently advocated for what’s best for Robbie, and has always included the Parsons in those discussions. There’ve been some missteps on both sides, but at the end of the day Kent is confident that Robbie knows he’s loved by his families.

“I mean, they were good cupcakes, but if they were my mom’s? I would have eaten, like, six.” Robbie giggles. “Okay, you gotta give me good thing number five.”

“Five, tomorrow it's my turn to pick the movie we watch after dinner.”

“Do you know what you’re picking already?”

“Yes, but I’m not telling you.”

“Well fine, be that way. You ready to go to bed?”

“You have to start the list next time.”

“I will. Maybe we could do it before you go to bed instead of at...ugh, 3:32am?”

“Maybe.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Kent ends the call and climbs into bed as quietly as he can _._

* * * * 

There is a gorgeous boy in the student lounge, looking warily at the coffee machine. Kent takes a moment to appreciate the figure he cuts in his skinny jeans and cardigan, noting the way his auburn curls are almost as haphazardly arranged as Kent’s own hair. He pulls his cup of coffee away from the machine, takes a sip and grimaces, which wrinkles his nose. 

Kent clears his throat. “Hey, there’s an actual cafeteria on the 2nd floor that brews real coffee.”

The boy blinks up at him over the cup. Oh god, he has freckles. “I wish I’d known that five minutes ago. You aren’t Kent, are you?”

“Uh, yeah. I am.” The boy walks over to Kent and extends a hand. 

“I’m Marc. We’re going to be working together?”

Oh no.

* * * *

Marc is a year ahead of Kent, almost done with his second semester of CEGEP, and is tutoring as a volunteer project. In their first two hours of conversation, Kent learns that he’s an only child, plays lacrosse for a rec league, and plans to major in polisci and become a lawyer. He follows American and Canadian politics fervently, and when Marc’s phone gently chirps at the end of their scheduled time, Kent has 5 pages of his notebook covered in vocabulary, questions, and book recommendations, a crick in his writing hand, and an all encompassing crush. 

“Why don’t you look over those notes, clean them up, and email me what talking points you’d like to start on before our next meeting?” Marc pulls his backpack up onto the table and tucks away his folders and pens. There’s a small rainbow flag pin stuck on the strap. Marc follows Kent’s eyes to it. “Problem?”

“No, not at all,” Kent says as he stands. “Can we meet somewhere that has, like, lattes next time? And not a Timmies?” he hurries to clarify. “Somewhere that has legit baristas. It’ll be my treat.”

Marc pauses to think. “I know a cafe you might like. I’ll text you the address.”

That night, Jack sleeps snoring beside him, and Kent stares at the ceiling and wonders exactly how he keeps getting shoved in the path of beautiful boys who are way out of his league. 

Two days later, Marc picks him up from school and takes him to a small cafe that has truly excellent lattes, as requested. While they wait for their drinks, Kent pulls two library books out of his bag. “So, I took your suggestions, but I’m not gonna have time to read all this. Can we do some sticky note magic for the most important parts?” 

One refill and some biscotti later, the books, now thoroughly annotated, have been pushed aside, and Kent is laughing so hard he’s about to cry as Marc tells him about his lacrosse team’s prank war. “Oh man,” Kent says, wiping a tear away. “You’ve given me so much ammo for playoffs.”

Marc gasps and puts his hand to his chest. “I’m leading a youth to questionable acts! Dreams, realized.”

“I’m only a year younger than you!” Kent’s still laughing as he reaches for his phone across the table. When he sees the time and the 3 missed calls from Jack, his laugh turns into a groan. Marc raises an eyebrow as Kent leaps up and starts shoving books and papers into his backpack. “It’s almost six. I was supposed to meet Jack at 5 to discuss strategy. He’s going to murder me.”

“I’ll drive you.” 

Marc speeds most of the short drive to the rink, but Jack is still gone by the time they arrive.

Jack doesn’t talk to Kent for two days at home or school and ignores him completely at practice, refusing to even pass to him. The coaches sit them down in the office and tell them they can’t leave till they sort it out.

Kent holds out in the silence for 3 minutes and 33 seconds, according to the clock on the wall behind the desk, before he breaks. “C’mon, Jack. I fucked up. I apologized. I’ll apologize again. I’m sorry I was late, Marc and I got into a discussion and I lost track of time.”

Jack shifts in his chair, refusing to look at Kent.

Kent sighs. “This sucks. You’re my best friend, but I have to have--”

Jack whips his head up to look at Kent. “I am?”

“Duh.” Kent pulls at his hoodie cords. “Out of all the losers on this team, you’re my favorite. I’m really sorry, okay? But you know I like school stuff. You like it too, you big nerd.”

Jack’s lips twitch, not a smile, but the beginnings of one. Kent pushes forward with the plan he thought of the night before. “Maybe if you met Marc? We could hang out sometime, the three of us.”

“I don’t want to interfere.”

“No, not like, during the tutoring sessions. What about after practice sometime next week--if he comes with us, we can get a bigger pizza.”

Jack thinks for a second. “I guess so. Maybe.”

“Okay, let me know. Can we get out of here? I’m starving and Jan’s making baked potatoes and you know Maddie will hog all the bacon bits if we’re late.”

Jack puts enough hustle into getting them out of the rink and grabbing a ride home that they’re in time to help set the table. 

That night, Kent crawls into Jack’s bed. “ ‘m sorry,” he mumbles, shoving his face into Jack’s back. “Don’t be mad.”

Jack pulls the covers around them. “You’re my best friend too, you know?”

Kent hums into Jack’s neck. “Yeah. I know.”

* * * *

Pizza doesn’t go terribly at the start, but it doesn’t go great, either. Jack is the least shining version of himself he could possibly be. After the third time he responds to one of Marc’s questions with a shrug, Marc gives up and returns to the conversation he and Kent had been having earlier about major events of Quebec history. 

Kent starts to lose the thread of Marc’s argument after a few minutes, but then Jack’s voice pulls him back in. “No,” Jack says, as he helps himself to his fourth slice of pizza, “we just studied that in my history class, and that historian’s been discredited.” 

Twenty minutes later, the pizzas are nothing but a few scraps of crust, and Jack has his own list of books to look up. They all take a few moments to put on coats and grab their bags. Kent’s heart stops for a second as he sees Jack notice Marc’s pride pin, but then there’s the mess of shoving three large boys into Marc’s tiny car, and Jack’s terrible directions, and by the time they’re home the moment is long gone. 

“He’s not awful,” Jack says that night, as he and Kent change into pajamas. 

“Well, from you that’s a sparkling endorsement.” Kent’s shuffling through his bag, looking for his phone. “Phone?”

Jack gestures toward the coffee table. “There. He should come to pizza again.”

Kent plugs in his phone and flops into bed, rolling to the side as Jack clambers in after him. “Okay, I’ll invite him.”

“But not every time.”

“Oh my god, you -- are you smiling? Ugh. Go to sleep.” Kent shoves at Jack. 

Jack rolls to his side and pulls most of the covers with him.

* * * *

It’s the end of April, and Kent is a nervous wreck. 

“What is up with you?” Marc asks the third time Kent drops the thread of their conversation.

Kent groans and thunks his head down on the table, jostling his coffee. “Playoffs in two weeks. We lost two games in a row. Jack is being intense--well, more intense than usual. Can’t sleep.” Kent cuts himself off before adding that he can’t sleep because Jack spends the nights tossing and turning next to him.

Marc sighs. “Would it help to stop our tutoring sessions?” “No!” Kent blurts out. “I mean, what about your volunteer requirements?”

“Hit my total last week.”

“Oh.” Kent doesn’t know where to look. “Well, if you’ve got other stuff to do.” 

“Let’s take a walk,” Marc says, standing up and gathering his things.

The weather is just above freezing. Kent hopes it’s not a long walk. They meander for a few blocks and find a sitting area tucked away between two buildings. Marc gestures and they both sit down. He breathes deeply and releases a puff of breath. “I like you.”

“Makes sense, I’m pretty awesome.”

“Oh my god,” Marc says, running his hand over his face. “Of all the boys -- look, I can’t tutor you anymore because I like you. As in, I want to date you. It’s becoming a problem.”

Kent can feel his heartbeat pick up. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I really, really like talking with you. Like, too much. And I know you’re not--”

“It doesn’t have to be a problem.” Kent’s words tumble out. “And I, um, probably am. I think. If that’s where you were going with that.”

Marc’s eyes are huge. “But--wow. Really?” He looks so hopeful, and his curls are sticking out from under his beanie, and Kent just can’t not kiss him there, in the cold, on a bench in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Marc reaches up to put one gloved hand against Kent’s cheek. Marc tastes like the almond syrup he flavors his coffee with, and he’s kissing Kent so softly, so gentle, that if Kent weren’t so very cold he’d want to stay in this moment forever. Instead, he pulls back slowly.

“I’m sorry, but I’m freezing.”

Marc laughs. “You southern boys.” He ignores Kent’s protests and pulls him up off the bench, walks him to his car, and drives him home. There’s another kiss before Kent leaves, just as soft as before, and Kent wonders if this is going to be his life, kissing boys in the cold and in cars, but then Marc smiles against his lips and murmurs, “I’m taking you out on a date this weekend, okay?”

Kent can’t stop smiling over dinner. When Jack calls him on it, he just rolls his eyes. “Jan made pot roast and we’re gonna annihilate the playoffs. Can’t I be happy?” When Jack opens his mouth to argue, Kent shoves a handful of mashed potatoes in his face, and laughs and laughs as Jack sputters. 

It’s totally worth having to do the dishes for three nights in a row.

* * * *

Dating Marc is fun. 

They keep up their tutoring appointments, even as Kent’s practice schedule escalates, sequestering themselves away into study carrels in back corners of the library, or dark booths tucked in the back of cafes, where they can hold hands and play footsie. 

One afternoon, practice is unexpectedly canceled due to a water leak at the rink. Marc ditches his class to meet Kent for a matinee at the local movie theater, a slightly ramshackle building with a lobby that was probably once beautiful. They smuggle in candy in the bottom of Kent’s bag and eat most of it before the lights go down.

By the time previews are over and the movie starts, the theater is still mostly empty, the front rows peppered with a handful of couples and one family. From their back row seats, Marc leans over, his breath tickling Kent’s ear. “They’ve been talking about shutting this place down for years. Terrible attendance.”

“Sticky floors,” Kent whispers back, turning his head so he can gently bite at Marc’s earlobe. 

“Mmm, the popcorn’s always stale.” Marc reaches over and runs his hand up Kent’s thigh. 

“You take me to such nice places,” Kent says, and Marc finally kisses him quiet. 

That night, after dinner, Jack sullenly asks what Kent did that afternoon. “Tim and I didn’t find anything we wanted at the fishing store," he complains. "It was very boring.”

“Right, I told you that sale would already be picked over, but no, you just had to go look at fake worms.”

Jack frowns from where he’s sorting his laundry on his bed. “I’m making you go fishing with me this summer. You’ll like it.”

“I’ll be really bored on a boat. Anyway, I went to a movie.”

“With who?”

“Myself.” Kent watches as Jack puts down the shirt in his hand and turns to look at him.

“Really?” Jack’s arms are crossed now, his expression unreadable.

“Yeah, if you hadn’t already been busy shopping for the most boring hobby on earth I would have invited you--” Kent stops talking as Jack comes toward him, reaches out, and tugs down the collar of his sleep shirt. Kent hisses when he pokes at the dark mark just under Kent’s collarbone. 

“By yourself, huh?”

Shit. 

“I can explain--”

Jack is staring at him now. 

“Don’t be mad,” Kent whispers.

“Too late,” Jack says levelly.

Kent feels tears welling up in his eyes. “I don’t owe you this.”

“If we’re best friends, you could at least tell me about your girlfriend.”

Kent could scream. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Just remember this when our game goes to shit because you’re lying--”

_Fuck it_ , Kent thinks. “God, it’s a boyfriend, okay?”

Jack opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Oh,” is all that comes out.

Kent lets his anger course through him. “Fuck you,” he spits out, turning to walk away from Jack. He’ll sleep upstairs. 

No, wait. 

Kent changes his path, gets up in Jack’s face, fingers jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you. I thought--you have no right--” Kent swallows hard. “If you knew--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jack says, grabbing Kent’s hands. “No, no. It’s not--no.” There’s a beat, and Kent can’t look at Jack, he just can’t. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Kent says defeatedly. “At all. Ever. About...it.” Kent glances up; he can’t read Jack’s face.

“That’s awful,” Jack says.

“Well, we didn’t all grow up in fucking gay Montreal with a famous mom who has drag queens dress up as her, and you know what, fuck you some more, okay?”

“How are you mad at my mom?” Jack asks, bewildered.

“You just--” Kent pulls away and sits down on the edge of his bed, puts his head in his hands. “It’s fucked, okay?” 

Jack sits down next to him and puts a hand on his back. “Okay, if you say so.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Kent feels Jack twitch. “I won’t.”

“It’s Marc,” Kent whispers.

“Right.”

“Yeah. No one knows. It’d be really, really bad. My family--it’d be bad, okay?”

Jack doesn’t answer, he just tips back and uses his momentum to pull Kent with him, and to move them so that Kent’s against his side. “It’ll be okay.”

_He’s still here_ , Kent thinks, _maybe I didn’t ruin everything._

“I wish I could believe you,” Kent whispers. Minutes later, he falls asleep curled next to Jack. 

When he wakes up the next morning, Jack is gone. Kent catches up with him at the school gym, and they spot each other till they have to shower and get to class. Jack’s weirdly solicitous the rest of the day -- he usually saves Kent a seat at lunch, but today he buys Kent’s chicken sandwich and fries for him, and he races through his post shower routine after practice to make sure Kent doesn’t have to wait too long before they head home. 

Kent’s feeling pretty great, until it’s bedtime, and Jack goes to get into his own bed. 

“The fuck?” Kent asks, his heart sinking. He fucked it up. He knew this would happen. Jack hates him now.

Jack pauses from where he’s turning back his sheets. “Wouldn’t your boyfriend mind?”

“Pretty sure you won’t like, ruin my virtue.” The light’s low, but Kent can see Jack’s face settle into an expression he’s never seen before. “Why are you making that face? Shut up and get over here so you can snore in my ear all night.”

Jack does. Right before Kent’s about to drift off, he hears him mumble, “I don’t snore.”

Kent wakes up to Jack snoring right below his right ear. He smiles as he shoves him over and snuggles into the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent, you gotta learn how to make out without getting all marked up.
> 
> Or, don't, cause it makes Jack jealous as all get out.
> 
> Not that he would ever admit that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The season ends.

Oceanic sweeps the first round of playoffs.

In the week they have off before the second round, Kent stays busy watching tape of their upcoming opponents, eating as much as he possibly can, and trying to wrap up his school year as well. Even with all this, he manages to sneak one night at Marc’s dorm, Jack grudgingly agreeing to cover for him at home. 

Buried in blankets on the beat up futon Marc hates but his roommate loves, they’ve been making out long enough that Kent is walking a fine line between arousal and delirious relaxation. He loves kissing Marc, loves the way Marc threads his fingers through his hair, loves the little gasps he makes when they pause to catch their breath, loves the way he strokes Kent’s jaw, breaking away to slip his thumb into Kent’s mouth. Kent shivers as he looks him in the eye and bites down lightly. Marc inhales sharply and licks his lips. It’s so good, and their blanket nest is so warm, and Marc’s hand is creeping up Kent’s shirt, his warm fingers moving to rub his nipple just hard enough to make Kent gasp. 

They’ve just gotten their shirts off when Kent yawns, surprising himself. He returns his attention to the soft expanse of Marc’s neck, but seconds later he’s yawning again.

“Sorry!” He shifts, moving his hand on Marc’s waist lower. “Let me make it up --” he doesn't even finish before yawning again, big and long.

Marc laughs. “Babe, I think maybe we should just get some sleep, yeah?” 

“No, I want to--” and this time it’s Marc cutting off Kent with a huge yawn of his own. 

The drag their mounds of blankets to the bed, and Kent drifts off wrapped up in Marc’s arms.

He wakes up to snoring in his ear, so he reaches out and shoves the first body part he makes contact with. “Shut up, Zimms, roll over.” 

“What?” a voice that is decidedly not Jack replies. 

Shit. “Sorry, babe, you’re snoring in my ear.” Kent feels Marc shift and turn on his bedside light. .

“What’d you call me?” his hair is an absolute riot, and he’s got sleep lines on his cheek from the pillow.

Kent swallows. “Nothing.” Marc sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Sounded like Zimms. As in Jack?” 

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Kent--”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking--”

“You’re a smart boy, you can probably guess--”

“Oh my god, stop. He snores, and we share a room, right? So I yell at him and he stops.” 

“Oh, right.” Marc says. “That --- that makes sense. I’m sorry.” He reaches up, turning out the light and wrapping himself around Kent again, planting a kiss behind his ear. “Sorry. I just really like you, you know?”

“S’okay,” Kent says, gritting his teeth at the guilt rising up in his gut. “I really like you, too.”

The next day, Kent takes a long shower in Marc’s cramped bathroom. He tries to clear his mind, to focus on the routine task at hand. His brain isn't cooperating, dragging up comparisons of the way Jack sprawls all over him to the way Marc holds him tight, how sometimes, when he runs his fingers through those red curls, he imagines thick, black hair instead, or that more often than he'd like to admit, when Marc is whispering to him in French, he imagines a different voice. 

Kent is such a piece of shit. Marc deserves so much better. Shit, so does Jack. 

As he watches the water spin down the drain, Kent resolves to do better. To be a better boyfriend, and a better friend. He can handle this. He’s Kent fucking Parson. 

* * * *

Oceanic go out in the second round and then have a seven hour ride home to stew in their misery. Kent turns off his phone and leans against Jack, who hasn’t spoken since they got on the bus. 

Jan and Tim are waiting up with hugs and smoothies, and Kent doesn’t know if he’s ever been as tired as when he collapses into bed. 

The next morning, he has 11 unread texts and 4 missed calls from Marc. He looks over at Jack, who is still asleep, tear tracks on his cheeks. Kent groans. Better boyfriend, or better friend?

He buries his phone under his pillow and starts poking at Jack. “Hey, sleeping beauty. C’mon, wake up. I bet we can talk Jan into making French toast. Jaaaaaack, wake uppppppp.” 

“I will kick your ass when I wake up.” Jack tries to roll over, so Kent jumps on him, straddling his waist and pinning him. 

“Gonna have to catch me first.” Kent flees, taking the covers with him, twisting out of Jack’s way as he lunges for him.

They spend the day wallowing, Kent being ridiculous when he sees Jack’s face go dark. When Jack goes up to the office to call his dad, Kent retrieves his own phone, and apologizes until he’s back in Marc’s good graces. 

Two weeks, Kent thinks. Two more weeks. 

* * * *

“I clean up good,” Kent says as he slings his suit jacket over his shoulder, checking himself out in the bathroom mirror. He pivots. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.”

“Sure, whatever.” Jack is finishing ironing his dress shirt, using an ungodly amount of spray starch and frowning at the collar when it won’t smooth out.

“Aww, c’mon. Tell me I’m pretty.” Kent walks over and flops on the couch. He sniffs at his wrists, trying to figure out if he put on too much cologne. It’s hard to tell. He sticks out an arm, just short of hitting Jack in the thigh. “Smell me.”

“No.” Jack’s concentrating, running the iron over a sleeve, then picking up his shirt and shaking it out before he looks over at Kent. “You’re gonna wrinkle your suit.” 

“Please smell me?”

Jack reaches for his wrist and brings Kent’s hand up to his face, licking a big streak across the palm. While Kent is wailing and swearing retaliation, Jack finishes getting dressed and starts toward the stairs. 

“C’mon, you know Jan is going to want to take photos.”

Kent sulks in every single one.

* * * *

The wine bottles on the eye level shelves are dusty, bottles of red half-wrapped in raffia that remind Kent of the what his parents would bring home at Christmas time when he was little. He shifts from foot to foot, waiting in line at the buffet for his turn to fill his plate with chicken alfredo. His parents are already back at the table. 

He plays with his tie, bored, and glances at the front of the room, where Jack and his parents are seated. Kent got to meet Alicia, but Bob had been late, flying up at the last minute after a meeting and slipping in while Coach Johns was giving his speech. 

Jack, sitting between them, looks ridiculously handsome in his suit. Kent’s not sure how he managed to get food so quick. The perks of being hockey royalty, he guesses.

A few moments later, he’s finally up to the front of the line. He shoves as much food onto his plate as will fit, then carefully navigates back to his table, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek once he sits down. 

After what feels like hours of speeches and awards later the banquet is almost over, and Kent is grateful. He’s just on the right side of tipsy -- Jonesy smuggled in a flask -- when the coaches announce next year’s captain. The only person who is surprised to hear Jack’s name is Jack himself, who looks absolutely gobsmacked. 

Kent’s heart is so full; of course Jack doesn’t see how amazing he is on ice, and how much he’s been there to bolster the boys in the locker room. He looks beautiful at the podium, his tie a little crooked and his grin lighting up his face. His speech is so awkward and earnest, Kent might cry. 

Okay, maybe he’s closer to drunk than tipsy. 

Kent’s just about to get up to find the men’s room, but then they start to announce the alternate captain, so he waits.

“Kent Parson.”

There must be a mistake. 

Someone must have been confused when they wrote out the index cards the coaches are reading from. 

“C’mon up, Kent.”

Everyone at his table is cheering and pushing him toward the stage. Kent takes the plaque and stands in front of the mic for a few seconds, blinking, before he leans forward. “Well, let’s light it up next year, huh boys?” 

He never makes it to the men’s room, and amidst the hugs and congratulations and good byes he loses track of Jack. His parents have already left for their hotel and will be heading out early the next morning; they’ll be back up in a couple weeks. Kent begs off riding home with Jan and Tim, saying that the boys are going out for a bit, then tells the boys that his parents want to spend time with him before they leave.

He walks out of the restaurant grinning and walks the few blocks to where Marc is waiting, his car idling and his eyes sharp as they look Kent up and down when he comes to tap the window. Marc rolls it down and leers. “Hey, stranger. Looking for a ride?”

“I don’t think you can afford me.” 

“Hmmm, maybe I can make a deal?”

“...uh...”

“You know.” Marc licks his lips, slow and seductive. “Something I could give you?”

“...is this about dicks?”

“Oh my god, get in the car.”

“Oh! Wait, uh...I bet you do have something to give me. Is that better?”

“You’re so bad at this. Get in the car, baby.”

Marc chirps him for three red lights before Kent reaches over and runs his hand up his thigh, which shuts him up until they pull into student parking. They kiss in the elevator, Kent pressing Marc against the back wall, and again against the door to his dorm room while Marc fumbles for his keys.

When the door swings open, he drags Kent in by his tie. 

“My roommate’s out for the night.” Marc’s hands are everywhere, first in Kent’s hair, then skimming down his back, and then grabbing his ass and pulling Kent flush against him. He bites at his ear, then the sensitive skin of his neck. “Goddamn, you look so good in that suit.”

“I can’t stay out too late,” Kent says as Marc strips him out of his jacket and tie. “I gotta get home before too long, okay?”

“Sure, sure, babe, of course.” 

There’s hunger in the movement of their bodies; kisses rough with teeth and tongues, sweetness lost to something raw and urgent. Kent strips Marc of his flannel; his broad chest hot as Kent licks a trail down to his belly button. He unzips his jeans and pulls them down, then slips his fingers inside Marc’s boxers, just brushing his cock.

Marc shudders and pulls Kent up before he gets any further, kisses him as he unbuttons and slips off his shirt, then helps him step out of his suit pants. “On the bed,” Marc says, walking Kent backwards until his legs hit the edge of the bedframe, giving him a gentle push so that he falls back. 

Kent bounces a little before settling back, propping himself up on his elbows. In front of him, lit dimly from the strings of lights that ring the room, Marc peels off his jeans and boxers. His eyes are dark and his smile is wicked, and Kent’s breath catches as he looks at the man in front of him, beautiful, and confident, and his.

Marc steps forward and bends to reach for the waist of Kent’s briefs; Kent nods, and he pulls them down carefully, then stands up straight again. Kent can practically feel the heat of his gaze as he looks him up and down. “You look so fucking good, baby. Spread your legs for me?” 

Kent does. 

Marc steps closer, kneeling in the space before Kent. He hooks his arms under Kent’s thighs and pulls his hips to the edge of the bed. He stops and looks up at Kent, his eyes low and dark. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Marc lowers his head, and Kent closes his eyes.

He’s never had this before, though he’s imagined how good it would feel, how good Marc would look with his mouth stretched around him. 

Reality is so, so much better. 

He clutches at the sheets and tenses his muscles, trying to make it last, trying to stay quiet when he just can’t hold back any more. He bites his lip but can’t muffle the cry he makes when he comes.

He’s still shaking when Marc crawls up beside him. “Was that okay?” he asks, and all Kent can do is laugh, then desperately kiss him. He rolls them onto their sides, wrapping himself around Marc so he can jerk him off slowly while he kisses his neck and bites as his shoulder.

The bed is a wreck when they’re done; Kent is a wreck, too, so they slide onto the floor, dragging the comforter with them, sweaty and content. They kiss, slow and messy and good, and Kent wants to fall asleep here, but he knows Jan will freak out if he’s not home by curfew. 

He makes it home with a few minutes to spare; Jan’s bedroom light is still on, so Kent tiptoes upstairs and does the gentle “one two three” knock on her door he knows she’s waiting for. When he gets to the basement, Jack is already passed out in the big bed. Kent still feels a little drunk, from the booze or the sex, or both, and he’d probably make way too much noise if he tried to get ready for bed properly, so he strips down to his boxers and climbs in, curling against Jack’s warmth like a cat. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night to Jack shaking next to him. 

“Jack? What’s wrong?” Kent reaches over and turns on the bedside light. Jack is curled up, knees to chest, his fists in balls. His eyes are squeezed shut and there’s sweat on his forehead. “I’ll get Jan,” Kent says, but he freezes when Jack’s hand shoots out and grips his arm.

“No.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Kent leans over and uses the sheet to wipe Jack’s face. “You gotta talk to me, okay buddy?”

“Wrong.” 

“I need more than that.” 

Jack grits his teeth. His face is covered in sweat again. “I can’t.”

It’s not much to go on, and his arm is starting to hurt where Jack is still clutching him. “You can’t --- what?”

“Captain.”

“You gotta give me a little more.”

Jack just shakes. 

Kent changes tactics. “Okay, let go of me for a sec, I promise I’ll be right back.” Jack does, and Kent moves around the basement as fast as he can, dampening a washcloth at the sink and grabbing a bottle of cold water from their fridge.

He gets back to the bed, and though Jack flinches at the first touch of the cloth to his face, soon he’s unclenching, letting Kent wipe his face and arms, and take off his sweat soaked shirt to wipe down his chest, too. 

He’s still shaking, but not so hard that he can’t drink some water, and his breathing has evened out by the time Kent helps him into a fresh sleep shirt, the worn gray one that he favors. 

Soon, he’s looking pretty normal, and Kent feels better about not going to get Jan. “There you go. You wanna talk?” Jack shakes his head. 

“Okay.” A few minutes pass, but the quiet feels wrong, somehow. “Uh, so I’ll talk, and if you want me to stop, just shake your head. If you don’t want to be captain that’s dumb. The boys love you.”

Jack frowns. Kent continues, “We talked about it kind of a lot the past couple weeks when you weren’t around. The team has your back, ok? Um, I do, too, obviously. I voted for you because you work so hard, and you are scary good at hockey, but mostly because the way you took care of me when Robbie moved was just, you know, uh..really, well. That’s what captains do, please tell me you feel better and I can stop talking?”

“Yeah, you’re embarrassing yourself.” 

Jack’s voice is thready, but he’s talking, and Kent will take it. “I think it’s like 3am, can we go back to sleep?”

“Mmm. Yeah, tired.” Jack says. They arrange themselves -- Kent wasn’t expecting Jack to want to be the big spoon, but okay, sure. “Thanks, Kenny,” Jack whispers against Kent’s neck.

“Anytime.” 

“You smell.” Jack sniffs at Kent, which tickles. “When did you even have time to get sweaty? We showered before dinner and then you went to see -- oh.”

Kent can feel himself blush. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Jack mercifully does.

* * * *

They wake up late the next day, and Jack won’t stop giving Kent funny looks over breakfast. Jan and Tim and Maddie are leaving for an overnight to see grandparents, leaving Jack and Kent to bake a frozen pizza for dinner and argue about what movie to watch. The original Star Wars trilogy is just about the last of the house DVD collection they haven’t already watched, so they settle on that. They eat pizza and drink beers they filched from the well-stocked garage fridge. 

By the time Lando Calrissian shows up, Kent’s reached the “truth” stage of drunk. 

_"You look absolutely beautiful. You truly belong here with us among the clouds_ ,” Kent quotes. “Listen to that. That’s smooth. That is one smooth motherfucker. I’d hit that. Don’t laugh, asshole, I’d hit that all the way to...to Alderaan.”

“To a planet that got blown up?”

“Blown job, more like.”

Jack’s laughing. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Oh c’mon, you’d hit it, too. He’s hot.”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe.”

“WHAT?” Kent shrieks and falls onto Jack, flailing around till he’s straddling his hips and thoroughly blocking his view of the tv. “Tell me more about your big gay crush on Lando.” 

Jack sets his own beer on the coffee table, then grabs Kent’s beer from where he’s gesturing with it, and sets it down as well. “I mean, if I’m gonna have a crush on any dude from Star Wars, it’s gonna be Han.”

“I KNEW IT!” Kent crows. “Han is so hot. This is just, like, validation. Confirmation. The best.”

“Okay,” Jack says, as Kent pitches forward and buries his face in Jack’s shoulder. “You’re cut off.”

“See, you’re always taking care of people. That’s why you’re captain.” Kent sits up and grabs Jack’s face. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so _good_. You helped me with my French, and you never made fun of me or told me I was dumb, and you’re cool with my boyfriend, and...Zimms, I love you.”

Jack grabs Kent’s hands and removes them from his face. “I love you too, pal. Um, can you maybe get off me? You’re digging your knee into my kidney.”

Kent obligingly rolls over, scooping up his beer in the process. “Can I tell you a secret?” he stage whispers.

“If it’s about last night, I’d really rather not--”

“I got a blow job and it was _awesome_.”

“Ugh.”

“S’okay. You’ll get one too, one day.”

“That’s great. How about we stop taking and watch the movie.”

“Okay.” Kent contentedly watches the move, sipping his beer and petting Jack’s chest for a few minutes. 

“Kenny?” Jack asks, softly.

“Thought it was time to be quiet.” Kent furrows his brow.

“You’re going to be a great alternate. I nominated you.”

Kent sits up like a rocket, spilling what’s left of his beer all over himself. “You did? Me? The weird American?”

“Yes.”

Kent’s eyes well up. “You believe in me.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Go change your shirt, it’s all wet -- no, don’t just take your shirt off, go--fine, be shirtless, not like I haven’t seen that a million times before.”

Kent falls asleep about two seconds later. 

The next morning, he wakes up in bed with a headache and a vague memory of Jack half carrying, half shoving him down the stairs. 

“Oh my god,” he says to the empty room. “I talked to Jack about gay blowies.”

Kent resolves to never drink again. His resolution crumbles three days later when the boys get together for an end of the year party, but hey, he tried. 

* * * *

Graduation and locker clear out are two days of chaos. Things are packed, dinners are conducted, and Jack and Kent walk in their caps and gowns. Jan and Tim scream harder than anyone else for their billet sons, and Kent can’t even be embarrassed. 

There had been a brief discussion a few days before about if Jack and Kent would want to split up for the next year, to have little more space, and after an awkward beat of silence, Jack had made a speech about the importance of a captain and his alternate having access to each other. 

Jan had solemnly applauded at the end. “That was some beautiful bullshit, Jack. I don’t want you guys to not both be in my basement, either. Bring it in.” And that was that. 

After the ceremony, Kent is running around trying to find his parents and then, suddenly, he’s face to face with the Zimmermanns. “Congratulations, Kent,” Alicia says, beaming her million dollar smile at him. “It’s good to see you again. This is my husband, Bob. I don’t think you two got to meet at the banquet.”

Bob, as in Bad Bob Zimmermann, living hockey legend and Jack’s dad, slaps him on the shoulder. “I’ve heard a lot about you, son. You’re gonna make a hell of an alternate.”

Bad Bob shakes his hand, and Alicia gives him a kiss on the cheek, and Kent only manages to not die on the spot because he refuses to give Jack that much free chirping material. 

Jack is whisked off to dinner before his flight to Montreal, and Kent goes to eat with his parents and sister. He and Kristen are staying in the Olsen’s basement -- their parents got a room at a nice B&B. 

That night, Kent wheedles and pleads and finally gets Kristen to promise to not tell on him as he sneaks out of the house around midnight. Marc is waiting for him a block over. His roommate is in the dorm, so they drive down to the river and park all night, making out and talking. They watch the sunrise holding hands, and Kent gets one last kiss when he’s dropped off.

Kent freezes when he opens the door and sees Jan sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. She looks as surprised as he does. “Um--” Kent starts, but Jan raises her hand to stop him.

“Nope. Your parents are in town, and I have been relieved of my duties for the summer. I don’t see you standing in front of me with very messed up hair and your shirt buttoned crooked, and I definitely don’t have a reason to tell you that you should never ever feel embarrassed to ask me to buy condoms for you, ever, even if I have to mail them to Buffalo, and this conversation never happened, except for the condom part, about which I am very serious.”

Kent dies a thousand deaths as he slinks past her without comment and walks down to the basement. 

“Condoms!” she shouts as he closes the door.

* * * *

Kent sleeps for most of the ride home, waking up to Kristen throwing a bag of fast food at his head. He thinks as he eats his fries, reflecting on the year. His heart still aches over Robbie; it does something else entirely when he thinks about Jack. 

His phone buzzes. It's a text from Marc, wishing him safe travels. He sends back a heart and lets the phone drop to the seat. There's easy listening playing low on the speakers, a Fleetwood Mac song his mother likes to sing while she cooks. 

Kent rolls down the window. The air is fresh and cool. It blows around him, sweeping away the stale smell of fry grease. He closes his eyes and enjoys the wind on his face. 

It's still hours to go before they're home, but Kent doesn't mind. He's leaving Rimouski with so much more than the duffle bags in the trunk. He has a boyfriend, he played some amazing hockey, and he’s going to be alternate captain in the fall. 

And, Jack Zimmermann believes in him. 

Kent’s all smiles as they cross border patrol into New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Part One of this series. I have the next part about half done, and big plans to write on an actual schedule during Nano.
> 
> Thanks to selfsong for giving this a once over and finding all those punctuation errors. 
> 
> A special, huge thank you to you lovely souls who left comments, which are so motivating. I genuinely appreciate each one of you. A special, special thanks to leetlebird, Straydog733, and blue_rocket_frost. I hope you like this installation!


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